


Indian Summer

by Lizzy0305



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DH compliant, Drama, Healing, M/M, Magical Creatures, Muteness, Post-War, Romance, Sickfic, Three Word Challenge, ignores the epilogue, town fair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzy0305/pseuds/Lizzy0305
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While England is enjoying the Indian Summer, Harry Potter suffers from a mysterious illness. As the warm days are slowly coming to an end, Harry has to realize that no matter what, if he ever wants to speak again, there are certain fears he has to face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bargaining Power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheankelor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheankelor/gifts).



> Hey guys! So, here's my new baby - in attempt to kill my block Sheankelor gave me a three word challenge. Her words were: _"hot-silent-sleep"_ Now, I was very liberal with those three words, mind you. But she didn't complain yet so... *sighs* I've got six chapters ready to go, which gives me six weeks to finish this baby. I do hope that will be enough.
> 
> We're post war, the story is DH compliant, but ignores the epilogue, Severus is obviously alive, but lives secluded. I think that's all. I hope you will enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it. And as always, my favourite Australian is helping me edit this. Thank you  Sexy.Lil.Emo  for still sticking with me :3
> 
> Oh and the playlist. Instrumental, autumn themed music, the very source of inspiration for this fic can be found here: http://8tracks.com/captainvulcan/indian-summer

* * *

 

_“Autumn...the year's last, loveliest smile."_

―  **William Cullen Bryant**

* * *

**_Chapter One - Bargaining Power_ **

 

The yellow leaves rustle beneath his feet as he crosses the park. Gentle breeze sweeps through his unruly hair, uncommonly warm, almost taunting him to untie his knitted scarf and tuck it away but he resists in the end and leaves it there around his neck. A part of him still hopes it could help, that this is just a cold and not anything more serious.

He kicks the dry leaves as he steps off the pavement and starts walking on wet grass. He can feel the cold seeping into his shoes, reminding him that the weather might be warm, but autumn is still all around them.

“Harry!”

He turns around, frowning. Hermione quickens her steps and almost runs up to him.

“You can't just walk away every time we start arguing about this.”

Harry looks around and when sees no one, he pulls out his wand. “ _Yes I can_ ,” he writes in the air.

The words glow angry red between them, then fade slowly into orange, then disappear completely.

“I know you’re frustrated,” Hermione starts, trying to place a soothing hand on her friend’s shoulder but he shakes it off, stepping back, out of her reach. Lips turning thin as a razor, she raises a hand, pointing her finger at the middle of Harry’s chest. “You need help, Harry, whether you accept it or not. It’s been two weeks! This is _not_ normal.”

Harry brandishes his wand and more words appear in the thin air, pulsing in crimson colour _._ _“_ _It_ _’_ _s just a cold._ _”_

“No, it’s not a cold,” she snaps. “And you know it, too, Harry, because nothing helps. I know you took some Pepperup, while you thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Harry shrugs, but can feel a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.

“I told you it won't work. It can't work, because whatever you have is caused by some kind of curse. I know I saw this somewhere, but I can't remember where. Please come back and let me cast some more diagnostic spells, at least. We’ll talk this over again. Please, Harry, come back with me, we’re worried about you…”

Harry takes a deep breath and steps forward hesitantly. Then he nods and Hermione lets out a relieved sigh.

“The more I can find out now, the easier job he’ll have.”

Harry frowns at her, stopping mid-step, but she does not seem to care as she goes on with only a roll of her eyes. “He is the only one, who could help you, Harry. Why won’t you consider him?”

Stubborn, Harry shakes his head vehemently and turns around, waving Hermione off with a jerk of his hand.

Hermione lets out a frustrated groan and stomps on the dry leaves that crunch beneath her foot. “If this thing doesn’t kill you, I will, Harry Potter!” She cries after him.

Harry rolls his eyes and points his wand behind him. “ _I_ _’_ _ll get better, Hermione, you_ _’_ _ll see. I don_ _’_ _t need him. Or anyone else._ _”_

The words fade slowly from the air and Hermione turns around to head back home as well. Harry knows she will not give up on this yet, however even he does not realize, just how far Hermione is willing to go to help him.

* * *

Severus is standing on his small porch, inhaling the refreshing cold air. He knows, later on the weather would warm up yet again, gaining still some time for summer and not letting the unyielding winter stretch its white wings just yet. But right now, everything is still fresh and cold and he can feel the fall slowly creeping into every inch of his body.

He is grateful for the gentle fall that has graced the lands in the last few weeks. It did wonders to his pumpkins, which had grows almost twice their size just recently. His apple trees are bowing from the weight of the huge red, green and yellow apples in the backyard. Ripe pears hang over the blue and violet asters that have just started blooming on the other side of the house.

He steps down the porch and walks over to his small garden. His tea is lightly steaming in his hands as he paces carefully between the clematis bushes, inhaling the sweet scent of the small white flowers.

The sun is bright over the horizon, promising another warm and peaceful day. Just as he stretches his back and gulps down the last of his Earl Grey, a huge orange tabby cat saunters forward from between the toad lilies, shaking drops of dew off his paws and head.

“There you are,” Severus mutters to him. “I thought I finally lost you.”

The feline looks up at him disdainfully then meows, demanding breakfast.

Severus just raises an eyebrow at the animal, before he nods towards the cottage. “Inside.”

With two elegant jumps the cat is out of the garden and running noiselessly up the stairs and then disappearing through the door. Severus sighs and follows the animal inside. He washes his mug then heads downstairs to his laboratory. If he starts early enough on the potions he needs to deliver today, he might finish clearing the two apple trees in the front yard this weekend. The Granny Smith trees have been standing there patiently, fruits ready to be plucked for a week now. But Severus had been busy, waiting for the weekend to come.

The Pepperups Marcus has requested from him are easy enough to brew but the Invigoration Draught needs time. He decides to begin with that and while it is brewing he can quickly start the Pepperups. He will make some extra, after all, it is autumn already and the cold season will start shortly.

Just as he puts the Invigoration Draught aside to simmer and is about to start on the Pepperup Potions, he hears a knock. Hoping that it is only the blasted cat whacking something off, he listens quietly. He is not expecting anyone; Marcus only promised himself at around eleven and that is still four hours away.

He stands up, his knees cracking just as the fire under the cauldrons. He watches the door of his laboratory as if he could see through the thick wood, up the dark stairs, through the small living room, his gaze piercing through the front door to scare away whoever dares disturb him on a Friday morning.

The intruder does not feel his menacing glare on themselves or maybe they feel brave enough because they knock again. Severus drops the stirring rod and cancels the flames with a swish of his wand. He stalks up the stairs and goes to the door with a grimace on his face.

Upon opening the door, he knows instantly that he made a mistake. He should have stayed downstairs and wait for the visitor to leave. She would have eventually. But perhaps, knowing Granger enough, he might be wrong about that.

“How did you find me, Miss Granger?” is his first question.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” says the girl with a bright smile, not bothered by the cold welcome.

“It is not good, thanks to your visit and I am not your professor anymore,” Severus reacts.

“And I’m not Miss Granger anymore, actually,” she smiles, showing a wedding band to Severus for a second.

“Mrs. Weasley then, I take it. The question remains: how did you find me, why are you here and do please leave me alone.”

“Can't, sorry,” she says and the next moment, she ducks under Severus’ arm and walks inside. “Nice home you have here, Professor… uhm... Sir… Mr. Snape?” She seems uncertain of the title suddenly.

Severus’ frowns at the cheeky chit. “You can call me grandpa for all I care Mrs. Weasley, what you cannot do is march in my home uninvited. Please leave, and take note that this was the last time I asked politely.”

Granger raises an eyebrow at the last word, clearly doubting her treatment so far for being polite. Then she looks around for something to sit on and her gaze catches one of the black wooden chairs that stands around the small kitchen table.

Plopping down, she sighs heavily. “It’s about Harry,” she confesses quietly. “He needs your help, Sir. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”

Anger flares in Severus by the mention of that name, yet he does not pull out his wand to spell the girl out of his kitchen. He runs a hand through his long black hair, sneering still, and then trudges to the table as well.

“What did that imbecile do now?” He spats, pulling out another chair and sitting down.

“He can't speak,” Hermione explains, her voice tainted with a hint of fear. “He is insisting that he has the cold but I checked him, he is fine. He is perfectly healthy, only… he cannot utter a word.”

“At all?” Severus asks, his ire seemingly vanishing.

“Not at all. Not a sound comes out of his mouth.”

Severus smirks. “I do not see any problem here, Granger. In fact I would say, everything is just as it should be.” Severus stands, smiling evilly. “And if you would excuse me now, I have… a life to live.”

But Granger grabs his arm and pulls him back into the chair, while she rises. Severus’ black eyes narrow.

“You can't do this!” Granger shouts, pleading. “You have to help him! He is suffering from something and it could even _kill_ him!”

Severus leans back on the chair, forcing calmness on his raging mind. “I _can_ do this and I _will_ do this. Whatever makes you think that I care about that little twat is beyond me, but let me inform you, Harry Potter can die for all I care. And the longer he suffers, the happier I am.”

* * *

Hermione apparates back home, fuming, swallowing back her tears. The moment she steps through the threshold she calls for her husband.

“Ron!”

A ginger head peeks out from the doorway to the living room. “I guess he didn’t agree to come.”

“That arrogant… insufferable…” Hermione presses out then takes a deep breath and hisses, “ _Git_.”

Ron pulls her further in the flat and makes her sit down in one of their armchairs.

“He does not even care if this kills Harry! How can he be so… _evil_?” She hits the soft armrest in frustration. “I’m so worried about that idiot. Why does he not want help, Ron?”

“You know how Harry is, Hermione. He wants to deal with things on his own.”

Hermione sweeps a teardrop away from her eyes and looks at Ron. “This is _not_ a common cold.”

“I believe you, ‘Mione,” Ron nods, “but what can we do? The Healers didn’t find anything, Pomfrey didn’t find anything, even _you_ didn’t find anything. Harry will not ask help from Snape, Snape does not care about Harry. He will not listen to McGonagall either. Who else is there we could turn to? There are not many Potioneers who know the Dark Arts well enough and wouldn’t sell this to the Prophet.”

“I wish Dumbledore was still here. He could convince Snape to help. Or just simply order him,” she adds in a darker tone.

“We need someone Snape respects enough, someone who cares for Harry, someone Harry would have to listen to… I wish we could somehow summon his Mom or something.”

“Ron!” Hermione cries suddenly. “You’re a genius!” She jumps up from the chair and rushes to the fireplace.

Ron watches her, mouth open as she grabs a fistful of Floo Powder. “You can't be serious, Hermione. You can't summon Lily Potter.”

“Of course, I can't,” she smiles conspiratorially. “But I can do the next best thing.”

* * *

Harry watches himself in the bathroom mirror as his mouth opens and closes yet not a word comes out of it. He tries again and again, until he is screaming in his mind, yet somehow his vocal cords are not effected in the slightest.

He sighs – noiselessly, and walks out to his bedroom. His gaze keeps wandering over the bed, not because he is tired. He does not even believe anymore that a bit of sleep is going to help him get better. The reason is something entirely different.

Ever since Hermione suggested that he should visit Snape and ask him to help, Harry’s mind relentlessly returns to that one spot under his bed. Unable to resist the temptation, he walks there slowly as if afraid of what might be hiding under there. He kneels down and reaches beneath the old mahogany bed. He searches and searches and for a second he thinks, happily, that the box he is looking for is not there anymore. That by some miraculous event it has disappeared into the darkness.

But then his fingers touch the coarse wood and he lets out a soft whine that once again is soundless.

He pulls out the box and opens it slowly. In there are treasures and memories he has not seen in years. On the top, his invisibility cloak covers the other items, still working perfectly, making it look like as if the chest is empty, but Harry knows better. He pulls off the cloak and there they are, his hidden gems.

There is not anything valuable in there: a wooden flute, made by Hagrid’s own hands, a Snitch, the first one he has ever caught, a family portrait album.

On the very bottom is a picture he received from Colin Creevey almost three years ago now. After the war, when he and a handful of other people accepted their Order of Merlin, Colin took a myriad of pictures of the ceremony. There was one however, that caught the young man’s attention. Colin said it was only a funny mistake and Harry wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that indeed the solution the picture was developed in was wrongly brewed. Or that perhaps, other circumstances could have produce this… this… mistake.

They laughed at it, and it was quickly forgotten by anyone except Harry. Harry took it out of the box day after day and watched it, confused and uncomprehending how this picture could exist. And yet, he could never bring himself to throw it away, though for certain that would have made his life easier. No, he kept it under his bed, and returned to it once in a while.

This time, the picture lies on the bottom undisturbed for more than a year. Harry reaches for it and lifts it out, hoping that this time it will show what it is supposed to and not what Harry now expects to see.

Unchanged through years and years, the two figures are still there doing what they have been doing ever since the picture first emerged from the developing solution. Harry watches it, mesmerized. He cannot help it. It captured his attention once again, just as always, unwilling to let him go, to let him think of anything else just what he is witnessing on that simple piece of photo paper.

The urging knocks save him this time from analysing his own thoughts and reactions to that picture. He stands promptly, sinking the disturbing evidence of his subconscious deep into his pocket. He shuts the box closed and kicks it under the bed.

The next minute, he is out of the bedroom, running down the stairs, rushing towards the loud, angry knocking.

He opens the door but then he wishes he didn’t.

“Harry Potter! Why have I not been informed about this?”

Molly Weasley is standing in the doorway of Twelve Grimmauld Place, her hands on her hips, her lips thin, and cheeks pink. She must have apparated right on the threshold from the Burrow, as she is wearing wizarding robes and a pink, messy apron.

Behind her, her youngest son is almost cowering, trying to turn invisible on the spot. Hermione on the other hand has her chin lifted proudly. Her brown eyes are challenging Harry to say a word – as if he could. Silently, the young man just bows his head and steps away from the doorway. Molly walks in with the two conspirators.

“You’re mute?” Molly asks strictly once inside.

Harry nods slightly, then raises his wand and writes in the air, “ _Completely_ _”_.

Molly’s features soften and the next moment Harry is held in a strong embrace. He can hear a soft sigh, which somehow sounds like “Oh, son…” but he is not sure. He draws his hands around Molly and they stand like that for a few seconds, then he is released. Hermione is beaming at them softly, Ron’s also smiling, finally daring to look Harry in the eyes.

“Let’s sit down,” Mrs. Weasley suggests, and she walks to the small, dim kitchen. She flicks her wand and water starts boiling while four tea cups sweep onto the table. Five minutes later, they are all drinking hot ginger tea.

“Ron and Hermione tells me this has been going on for more than two weeks. Why didn’t you say a word, Harry?” She asks and Harry feels a sudden knot in his throat that has nothing to do with his illness. He shrugs. Molly reaches out and holds his hand and Harry suddenly feels like he is eleven again, instead of twenty. “Why do you refuse to ask help? Do you not want to get better?”

Harry shakes his head, unsure what to say.

Molly goes on as if reading in his mind. “Or is it that you don’t want to ask help from one certain someone?”

Harry looks back at her guiltily. He tries to ignore the other two in the kitchen.

“I understand that asking help from Professor Snape again might be a bit… hard. But if the healers can't help you, he might be your only chance, darling.”

Harry brandishes his wand, “ _He hates me. He would never help_ _”_ , he writes in the air.

Molly puffs up to twice her size, her brown eyes darken. All of a sudden, she resembles a tiger more, than the sweet lady Harry thinks of as his surrogate mother. “We’ll see about that,” she huffs.

For a moment, Harry feels almost sorry for Snape, then he smiles. “ _Thanks_ ,” burn the red letters in the air between them.

Molly stands and presses a kiss onto the top of Harry’s head. “That is what I’m for, sweetheart.”

With that she is out of the kitchen and then a moment later Harry can hear the front door shut behind her. He leans back and looks at his friends with a raised eyebrow. He lifts his wand and scribbles in thin air, “ _That was unfair_.”

“That was necessary,” Hermione answers, ready for another fight.

But Harry does not want to fight. He touches the picture in his pocket and thinks, maybe it is time he faces the other person on the picture. After all, it has been three years that single image has hounted him; it is time to face it.

 _“_ _When you_ _’_ _re be collecting my remnants into a matchbox, remember, I told you this won_ _’_ _t end well_ _…”_

Hermione huffs a laughter. Ron grins, “I’ll risk it. It’s too weird not hearing you shouting at us, when we argue.”

Harry laughs then reminds his best friend that he is still rather good with non-verbal jinxes.

* * *

The morning goes by and potion bottles line the kitchen table, while Severus is finally outside, doing what he wanted to do all week. He is standing on a ladder, reaching for the ripe apples, collecting them in a big bucket that is hanging on a branch. He does not use magic; he knows better. He prefers the traditional ways when harvesting, even if it takes longer. Magic somehow makes his apple pie taste different, anyway.

The sudden loud bang of apparition almost knocks him off the ladder. He is cursing, and the bad happenings are mostly directed towards the Headmistress of Hogwarts even if the woman who’s marching towards him is not her – though equally ferocious.

He does not bother to ask how he is found – only Minerva could have told that to anyone -, nor why Molly Weasley graces his estate with her presence. He still speaks up before she could.

“Don’t even say it. I refuse.”

“No you won't.”

“Oh, yes,” Severus answers, “And with the greatest pleasure. He might have charmed you, Molly, but to me he is just a little miscreant who made my life a living hell.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Severus, he was your student, who occasionally misbehaved.” Molly ignores Snape’s snort and goes on. “He wasn’t as much trouble as my twins anyway. He is just a boy, Severus, who needs your help. And you will indeed help him.”

“No, I won't, and you can't make me, either. He is a disrespectful imbecile; not the kind of person I would ever affiliate myself with beyond what is my duty.”

“It _is_ your duty to help him, Severus,” Molly says patiently.

“It _was_ ,” Severus spats. “A long, long time ago. He is a grown up wizard now, he can take care of himself. And if not, well… idiots deserve what malice fate offers them.”

Molly looks around the garden, her eyes resting on the bucket of apple for a moment, then they return over at Severus. There is calculation in there and when she smiles deviously, Severus suddenly retracts.

“What?” He asks suspicious.

Molly is quiet for a moment, then she all but whispers. “I’ll give you my secret apple dumplings recipe.”

Severus does not let the surprise set on his face. That recipe has been locked down for years, kept in secret more than the location of the Headquarters of the Order of Phoenix. He looks aside, considering the offer. Whatever bugs Potter, he could probably come up with a cure within a few days. Molly’s apple dumplings would take the stoic Marcus off his feet and would probably sell good on the market too. Moreover, if Potter stayed with him during the next few days, he could have him harvest the apples, while he worked on the potion or the counter-curse. He smirks as he looks back at Molly.

“And your pumpkin brûlée.”

Molly is taken aback for a moment, and Severus’ smirk turns even more self-satisfied. Then she nods rigidly.

Smug as the feline that is brushing against his feet, Severus dusts off his hands, then swipes them into his pants to get rid of all the dirt. He looks at the granny smiths wistfully, but then sighs exasperated, “Bring him here.”

The orange tabby cat hisses at his feet.


	2. Magic in a Mason Jar

It has been years since he did side-along Apparition and he feels somewhat anxious as he grabs Molly’s arm. Why can he not know where he is going? Does Snape live so secluded that only a select few is allowed to know about this mysterious home? Why is he not trusted with this information? It is not simply that he does not know where he is going but he is not _allowed_ to know. It makes him upset, though he knows he needs to be calm if he ever wants to speak again. Snape might have his own reasons for wanting to live far away from anyone and besides, it is known how much he hates Harry – why would Snape tell him where he lives?

A warm gust of wind sweeps through him and he takes a deep breath. He focuses on something else. His backpack for example, that is so full of all the things he might need in the next couple of days that it almost rips.

In that brief moment before they apparate, Molly is so close to him, he can even smell her for a second – apples and roasted chicken – then everything is gone, the smells, the warm wind, even the weight of his backpack. There is only darkness and an awful squeezing sensation.

The sun is shining brightly wherever they are. The air smells much better, fresher and somehow welcoming. It brings the scents of smoke and pumpkin and wet ground and something flowery sweet. Harry opens his eyes slowly.

The gasps that breaks out from his mouth is noiseless, luckily. He is standing at the edge of a forest, in front of a charming little cottage. The deciduous and evergreen trees make a disarray of colours all around them. There is yellow that is bright and gold, also dull brown and chocolate, auburn and maroon; brown that is so dark it is almost black. Vivid green and dark, like Harry’s own eyes. Red and orange make it look like some of the trees are on fire. It is chaotic, wild, unarranged and Harry loves it.

And in the middle of all that is the neat little house. He can see apple trees at the front; succulent looking apples hanging from all the brunches. There are more flowers than Harry ever expected – though he must admit, he did not even expect any. Behind the cabin are more trees and fields and a lake.

It is magical and Harry almost forgets who lives here. It happens for only a moment, but he is taken by the beautiful scenery, so different than London, so charming, warm and… _welcoming_.

“I would say, make yourself at home,” says a deep tone behind him, “but I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want you staying _that_ long, Potter.”

The beast is here and the first impression of the magical place crumbles apart like paint on an old portrait. The trees are just trees, same as in Hyde Park. Some branches of the apple trees are broken and dead. Ivy is sneaking up on the neat little house, holding on to stone like a parasite. Most of the fields are empty, there is only pumpkin growing now. The lake is green and looks dirty even from this distance. Snape is menacing and dark, just as Harry remembered.

Harry pulls out his wand but before his motion could finish, he is facing a black wand. Molly huffs quietly next to him.

 Snape is watching him with a raised eyebrow. Harry answers with a roll of his eyes. He slows down the motion and makes it as unthreatening as he can. When his wand is out, he writes slowly in the air, “ _Hello, Sir._ _”_

“This is how you communicate?” Snape asks looking over him judgingly from tip to toe.

Harry nods.

“I’m afraid that will not do here.” He swishes his wand and thus a notebook appears, a muggle pencil attached to it on the side. He tosses it at Harry’s chest. “From now on, you will write. Properly.”

Harry rolls his eyes first, then shakes his head. He flicks his wand and the angry red words appear in the air between them. “ _This is easier_.”

Snape’s eyes narrow and Harry is surprised to see the fury in them.

He is expecting a curse. He is not expecting Snape to step up to him and simply twist his wand out of his hand, which is probably why the old man manages to bring off his plan.

“If you want my help, Potter, there are certain rules you’ll have to obey.” He states strictly. “Rule number one, you will do as I say. Is that understood?”

Harry screws up his face, not wanting to obey any longer to his old Potions Professor. However the next moment, a warm, soft hand, light as feather descends onto his shoulder. Mrs. Weasley is looking at him pleadingly, and it is the almost motherly tenderness in her whole posture and even more in her eyes that make Harry accept his fate. His eyes snap at Snape and he nods. He puts away his wand and opens the notebook.

**Any other rules I should know about?**

Snape smirks almost triumphant as he reads the single line. “I’ll let you know as we go along.”

**o.O.o**

The interior of the cottage itself is way too charming. This time Harry does not even see it through a magical mirror, Snape - the evil beast - leads him inside the enchanted castle with eyes wide open. He sees the flows in the old furniture, he sees the cracking green paint on the cupboards. But he also sees a small black table with three chairs around it. Books, jars and rolls of parchment lie scattered on it. To its left stands a bigger cupboard, this one white and filled with books. At first Harry thinks they are Potion books but then he catches a title and realizes they are all cookbooks. Upon closer examination he notices other titles too: books for growing trees, for flowers, magical books for gardening. He can swear he has seen some of these volumes at the Burrow, too.

The kitchen is not spacious but bright, thanks to the huge window over the sink. There are dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, lavender, monkshood, and many else Harry cannot even recognize. The walls are darker peach, which somehow suits the green cabinets. The fireplace is empty and cold at the moment, but it is big enough for even a human to stand in there, which means Snape is probably connected to the Floo Network.

To the right, there are two doors. One green and windowless, one white and almost nothing but windows. Harry goes that way, disregarding the irritated huff that comes from behind him.

As he steps through the frame, he finds himself in the living room. There is a fire roaring in the small fireplace, which is clearly not for cooking. In here, the walls are stone or window. The room is bright, and offers a view to the terrace, the back garden, and the lake not so far away. There are many bookshelves lining the walls, the furniture is mismatched, some brown, some green, some chequered – but it all looks comfortable.

He avoids stepping on the carpet and stays only on the wooden floor as he walks around. He hesitates at the stairs that leads upstairs.

“Oh don’t you be shy now, all of a sudden,” snaps Snape. “Just take your shoes off.”

Harry kicks off his boots and walks up the iron spiral staircase, not sure what to expect on the gallery. He cannot say he is surprised when he sees Snape’s bedroom, yet he is not quite undisturbed by the view either. The bed is neatly made, iron framed, covered with a white sheet. The bedside tables are the same green as the kitchen counters. Only one of them is filled with small trinkets: tiny potion bottles, huge tomes, reading glasses.

Harry tears his eyes away from the bed and looks around watching the drawers, the windows on the ceiling, the plants, anything else but the bed.

Snape leans against the railing and points towards the bathroom.

Harry walks into the smaller room that must be right over the kitchen. As he stands, he is facing the windows in front of which an old, copper bathtub sits like a lazy hippo. Its legs are thick and embroidered, forming some kind of bird.

Snape walks there and opens the tap, then turns to one of the many cabinets, pulling out a white towel. He then goes to a different one and pulls out a bottle from there. As the water slowly fills up the rather large bathtub, Snape stands over it and drips exactly three drop of the potion into it with slow, somewhat elegant motions.

“You are to take a bath now,” he says with a calmness Harry is not sure he will ever achieve in this house.

He pulls out the notebook to write something. He sees from the corner of his eyes as Snape rolls his eyes and that makes him even more irritated.

**Excuse me?** He writes onto the white sheet.

“You heard me, I assume.” Snape drawls. “Undress and take a bath. Put your clothes outside the door.”

Harry’s heart misses a beat, and he frowns at Snape. **What for?** is the next thing he scribbles down.

Snape regards him with raised eyebrows for a moment, then says slowly, “Because I said so.”

Harry growls at him noiselessly of course, and starts writing so hard, he all but tears the paper. He tosses the book at Snape to read it.

**I** **’** **m not a bloody kid anymore, Snape! I won't just do whatever you tell me to, unless you explain it!**

“You probably wouldn’t understand it anyway,” Snape shrugs. “I don’t owe you anything, Potter, remember that. You're here for my help. If I do it, I’ll do it my way…”

**Try me.**

Harry is staring into the hateful black eyes, as he is trying to mentally burn a hole into them. However Snape stands his gaze and looks back, unfazed.

There is a moment of hesitation then he opens his mouth, “You’ve been foolish enough to use magic in the last couple weeks. Magic always leaves behind a trace. I need you to get rid of the traces of the magic you used, so that I can see the magic that was used on you.”

Harry feels himself blushing. **Is that also why you don** **’** **t want me writing with my wand?**

“Partly,” admits Snape after he reads the notebook. “And partly because I don’t want you waving your wand around my house. You might set something on fire… Accidentally, of course.”

There is a teasing twitch at the corner of those thin lips and Harry huffs, though not fully irritated. Then he gives his former professor a nasty look, sending him out of his own bathroom.

Snape turns to leave but he stops at the doorway. He does not look back as he explains, “I need to soak your clothes in a potion too, to get rid of the magic that might have clanged to them. It won't harm the material.”

Harry appreciates the explanation though he cannot say so. Then Snape turns back and Harry suddenly senses a certain discomfort in the air.

“And welcome to the Shelter, Mr. Potter,” says Snape quietly with a little bow of his head, then he is out of the bathroom.

Harry stares after him for a moment, then starts undressing, folding his clothes into a neat pile that he leaves in front of the door.

The scent of lavender rises from the tickling water. He sinks neck-deep into it.

**o.O.o**

Severus is sitting next to boiling Purification Potion. Potter’s clothes are marinated in it, bubbling happily. Colourful bubbles rise with the fumes indicating all the magical leftovers on the materials.

He sighs just as the orange tabby cat saunters into the potions lab.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in vain because the cat does not stop. He jumps up the table and sniffs at Potter’s shirt. A moment later he is lying on the red clothe, rolling around in the smell.

“Traitor…” Severus spits at him and orange eyes look back at him, huge and innocent. He shakes his head then pulls the jeans out of the potion. He taps it with his wand to dry it, then folds it neatly. There is only one last piece of clothing remaining, but the cat does not seem to be willing to give it up. Severus threatens him with his wand, but the cat is unfazed.

He just rolls again, rubbing his head and neck against the soft material. His rumbling resonates through the desk, Severus can all but feel it where his legs touch the wood.

“Enough,” he murmurs at the animal, jerking the shirt from underneath him. He gets the clothing in the potion eventually, but his only reward is angry red, bleeding scratch marks.

He is still glaring at the cat menacingly, when the first black bubble emerges from the potion. He is so surprised that at first he is only staring at it. He damns himself when the bubble bursts and grabs a jar to trap the next one and the one after that and all the rest that is following. In the end, he has a mason jar full of tiny black bubbles, heavy and oily.

“Interesting…” he mumbles studying the final results.

He sinks the jar into his pocket then taking Potter’s clothes with him, he walks upstairs. He picks out the ones Potter was wearing from the pile and knocks softly on the door. He hears splashing and sputtering from inside, so he opens the door slightly as he levitates the clothes through.

“They are clean,” he announces while the clothes fly over the sink then gently touch down on the edge. He is waiting for a second for a thanks then realizes he can wait ages even, it will never come.

Then suddenly the door opens widely and Severus finds himself facing Potter, who is grinning wildly and appreciatively, even if he is still dripping water everywhere.

Severus rolls his eyes – as long as they aren’t on Potter, he is happy – then turns to leave.

“I’ll put these away,” he groans as if the three shirts and two jeans would be the heaviest items. A hand touches his shoulder and catches a whiff of lavender. He looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

Potter mouths, “Thanks,” and smiles shortly before the door closes in Severus’ face.

He walks downstairs, fingers drumming as his hand slides down on the slim iron railing. For a moment, he is not sure where to put Potter’s clothes, maybe he should have left them upstairs, near his own closet, but that might assume something for the young man. So instead, he puts the clothes down next to Potter’s bag on the couch. He can deal with them as he likes.

He feels the weight of the mason jar in his pockets, so he takes it and walking towards the patio he lifts it towards the light that is flooding the room from outside. The rays of sunshine try their best to penetrate the thick, gooey magic, but they fail. Severus saw this magic a long time ago, back when he was a teacher, back when Potter was nothing else just a snotty troublemaker.

Things are different now; Potter is an Auror and a hero and so is Severus. But this magic is still dark and still requires the most unusual ingredients to be neutralized.

He hears Potter fumbling upstairs. Sighing heavily he turns around and rushes downstairs to his lab. He pulls out a new cauldron, strong iron one and pours ten ounces of water into it. Seconds later the fire is lit beneath it, and shortly the water is boiling.

Making an antiserum requires patience and most importantly calmness and focus. As he currently does not demonstrate the last two, he is not really surprised when he cuts his own finger instead of the liquorice root. Hissing, he licks off the blood and after a short healing spell, he tries again. This time, the liquorice roots get sliced evenly, but then he hears a door upstairs open and close and he suddenly knocks over the jar of hawthorn berries.

“Potter…” he growls viciously, though he cannot hear the approaching steps of the young man.

Potter’s not coming; instead the orange fur ball launches himself at the berries from under the table. There is a fight between them again, and Severus emerges almost fully victorious. Only one berry became victim of the sudden attack, which is now slowly being skinned and licked. Severus watches the cat that has been with him for ages, not quiet knowing why he keeps it around (though truth be told, he suspects that even if he sent the cat away, the animal would be stubborn enough to stay). The tabby cat has always been self-centred and arrogant, never listening to a word Severus said. They always fought fiercely during the day, Severus’ whole body has always been covered in red marks, but at the end of the day the cat always hopped on Severus’ bed and found a nice corner, or curled up on his pillow next to Severus’ head and they’ve slept together in silent companionship.

Severus shakes himself to come back from the memories. Who cares why he would take in a wild and arrogant orphan.

He drops five skinned berries in the water and stirs it five times counter clockwise.

It takes almost two hours, his back is aching, his knees are dirty and sore, but he finishes the potion. The second to last ingredient (bark of witch hazel) is still swaying on the top. When it sinks, the remedy will enter the last stage. The most complicated stage of them all.

One more ingredient is still needed but Severus is not yet sure what it will be. Further tests are required, but unfortunately, those must be conducted on Potter. The living, breathing boy Severus does not really want to spend more than a minute around. But the sooner he finds out which component to add, the sooner Potter leaves his home. Which will be good. Because he will _not_ miss Harry Potter. Not in the least.

From one second to the other, the witch hazel barks sink to the bottom and all of a sudden, the potion turns from hazy grey to mix of purple and dark blue. Severus lines up a few more jars and starts ladling the potion into them. In the end, six small jar are full with the thick mixture that is still turning slowly in its confines, glimmering lightly in the dim room. Through the glass it seems like there are clouds in there, fluffy and lighter in colour – it almost looks like a small universe.

Pleased with himself, Severus stands up and dusts off his black robes. He stretches, listening to the loud cracks of his old bones. The cat is nowhere to be seen, so he closes the green door after himself as he leaves the lab.

He calls Potter’s name, but the young man does not answer. It takes Severus a moment to realize why. He is still not used to _mute Potter_ , even though the fact that Potter cannot jeer back at him makes him smile. He waits listening to the noises the other wizard would make, but he cannot hear anything. He walks through the kitchen, searches the living room and even peaks inside the bathroom, but Potter is nowhere to be found.

Growling insults under his nose, he storms outside into the blinding sunshine. He looks around but Potter is still nowhere. He cries his name, two times but only the orange tabby cat appears, thinking he is the one being summoned. That makes Severus realizes it is past lunch time and he did not give any food to the cat.

His loud meowing demands are also a good reminder.

“Go fetch a mouse,” Severus barks at him, as he steps off the porch walking through the front garden.

Only thanks to his old instincts does he notice the apple that is flying towards his head. He is still quick as a snake when it comes to it and he catches the fruit only inches from the side of his face. He looks towards where the apple came from and finds the culprit. Potter is sitting on the tree, a bucket full of apples on one of his side, one still half empty on the other. He is tossing an apple from hand to hand, his obvious good mood written on his face.

Severus pulls out his wand and flicks it, but Potter who has not forgotten his Quidditch instincts yet, also catches the apple that is flying towards him.

He bites into it and juice dribbles from his mouth. Severus wants to find it disgusting, but that is not the emotion that surges inside him.

“Come down, you fool,” he shouts forcing annoyance into his tone.

Potter’s climbing down with the elegance and speed of a monkey, holding the apple between his teeth. He is drooling slightly by the time his feet touches the ground and Severus swears under his breath, because he somehow finds the smiling green eyes, the pink cheeks adorable and not damnable.

“Did you use any magic?” he asks crossing his arms. His eyes slowly turn towards the buckets.

Potter chews and swallows hard before he bites into the apple again, freeing both his hands. He takes the notepad out of his back pocket and starts writing. He holds it up for Severus to read.

**You said not to. So I didn** **’** **t.**

“Good. Don’t ever use magic in the garden. It makes the flavours different.”

Potter’s eyebrows rush up under his fringe and suddenly Severus realizes what he said. Potter is not here to learn bloody gardening tips from him.

He hates the grin Potter shows him. “Do you remember being hit with this spell?”

Potter shakes his head as he writes, **I didn** **’** **t even know it was spell.**

“How did this all start?”

Potter is writing for a while, almost two small pages gets full by the time he shows it to Severus.

**Well the last few months were very quiet at the office, and the only time I was in a duel was at training but I never felt any magic even hit me during it** **…** **and all this started about a week after that training. It was like a cold. My voice was croaky, nose running, then I started coughing, then I had a sore throat and then one morning I woke up without my voice. Then everything else slowly started getting better, except my voice. Now I** **’** **m completely okay, but I still can't speak.**

Severus hums deep in his thoughts as he absentmindedly places his hand on Potter’s neck and lifts his chin. He slowly strokes Potter’s Adam’s apple with a firm pressure. He cannot feel any lump so his thumb moves over thick, moist lips and he forces Potter’s lips apart.

He feels as Potter lets out a shaky breath that would be a whine if he was capable to utter any noise. Severus’ gaze darts from the wet lips to the green eyes that are wide with shock. For a second, it registers in him how close they are, that he is holding Potter by the neck, his finger is on that soft, lush bottom lip and he wants to pull back. He has to force himself to remain where he is though and he stares into those eyes challengingly. He dares Potter to move away, to show distrust so that he can be rightfully angry with the boy as well, not just with himself. But the tempting green eyes slowly flutter closed and Severus forces himself to bite his own lips before he bites something else.

He takes a deep breath, fully aware that Potter can still _hear_ him even if he cannot see him. He keeps talking, hoping it will help prevent any other unnecessary action.

“I managed to identify the possible curse that is in you. If I am correct, the spell that hit you left behind certain… residues, which probably weakened your immune system, and that is why you became physically sick afterwards. Now, there are still some tests I’ll have to conduct in order to make sure of this. With your permission, of course.”

Potter’s now staring at his face, but it seems to Severus not a word has registered in that big head.

Slowly, the boy blinks and then the life (or intelligence) seeps back into his green eyes. He shrugs at Severus and starts writing again.

**Do what you have to do.**

Severus looks at the paper, then back at Potter. There is nothing but trust in the bright eyes that look back at him. He is not used to seeing Potter like this: without any hatred or agitation. Not mutinous but fully co-operative.

He holds Potter still with one hand as he starts chanting a spell while his right hand grabs onto his black wand and draws all different motives all over Potter’s skin. He can feel the boy shiver wildly, but he does not stop. His tone of voice becomes stronger but deepens as the spell reaches the middle.

Potter is breathing hard in front of him, his eyes close down and Severus has to grip him firmly to make him stand erect.

Potter holds onto Severus as a fit of coughing attacks him and forces him to bend over. He almost spits out his lungs, he is coughing so hard, Severus cannot hear the struggle but seeing it is convincing enough. He tries to help with caressing the lean back softly and slowly the fit dies away.

Suddenly, Potter grabs his own throat and coughs once more. This is what Severus has been waiting for. He pulls out a clean jar from his robe and holds it out in front of Potter’ mouth. The young man spits into it.

The black goo dribbles slowly down on the transparent glass. Severus draws out the other mason jar too with the black bubbles and holds both of them up towards the sun. He is not surprised to see that they are the exact same.

**So that is** **…** **dark magic?** Says the note Potter holds up in front of him, written with a rather shaky handwriting.

“No, this is fairy dust,” snaps Severus with a roll of his eyes. “Of course it’s dark magic. Have you lost the use of your eyes as well now?”

Potter glares at him for a second then starts writing again. **And you put it into a MASON JAR?**

“Well…” Severus suddenly feels awkward and he senses the warmness spread on his cheeks. “I had a few lying around.”

Potter bursts out laughing silently, and Severus feels like slapping him around the head.

But before he could, Potter calms and starts writing again. **So what are you going to do now?**

“I already have the basis for the antiserum. There is one more ingredient missing. I’ll try out some options before…” The questioning gaze does not let him finish at that. “The ingredient is rather hard to acquire. I would say, almost impossible. If you’re lucky, we might be able to substitute it with something else that works just as well.”

**Lucky? Me?** Potter writes and he adds a smiley face as well.

“If anyone, Potter, it would be you,” Severus notes as he finally lets Potter’s arm go. “Now, you might as well finish what you started. Those apples won’t pluck themselves.”


	3. Selfish Reasons

They are well into the afternoon and Harry is taking a small break. He is sitting on the front porch with a glass of water, trying his best to keep the mad orange cat away from himself. The nameless animal has been on and off attacking Harry whenever he had the chance. Now he is content with the shoelace Harry is dragging in front of him, however it will not last long.

Harry watches him and soon finds himself beaming fondly at the animal that caused more bleeding scratches on him than the tree he has been climbing on in the last couple hours.

He snatches back the shoelace and stands to take a small walk around Snape’s estate. Though he tries not to see it as an enchanted land, it really takes all his strength not to fall under the same spell again. He plucks a ripe, fresh pear from the tree and inhales the scent of the white clematis as he passes it. Taking small bites from the sweet fruit he walks past the small house and enters the back yard. He leaves behind three apple trees and two peaches that are empty by now.

Crows jump nearer to him as he gets closer and closer to the pumpkin patch, perhaps protecting that huge pumpkin which is laying cut in half for them to feed on. He wonders what happened to Snape that made him collect these strays, taking care of all the animals in need.

The crows yell at him loudly when he is too close and they jump into the air, flying towards him just to change directions a couple meters before him and land near the pumpkin again. Harry circles around them, rolling his eyes at the black birds, who in return open their large beaks at him silently.

The lake is not that large, however as the surface is untouched it turns into a gigantic mirror. The burning red and yellow leaves and the bottle green pines reflect on the water only slightly hazy, a bit even eerie. He cannot tell where the real tree ends and the reflection starts.

An old rotting boat lies in the water, its belly giving home to frogs and fishes now. Next to it is the wobbly looking pier, so old the end of it sank into the cool water long time ago. An echo of the past looks back at him in the form of two wooden fishing chairs. He is sure Snape has never sat in these; they must have come from the previous owner, whoever it was.

He walks onto the wobbly planks and suddenly the lake comes alive beneath him. Fishes swim away, frogs leap into the water and a duck family launches into a frantic escape from beneath the wooden lathes. He watches them silently, feeling sorry for the interruption.

Soon, his thoughts drift from the ducklings to a much urging problem. Living with Snape for days does not seem as horrible as he expected. That should be good, but he does not think about it as a benefit. What if in the end, when he finally has his voice back, he says something he should not? Will he, in the first place, get his voice back? Will Snape save him _again_? Why does the past have to repeat itself? And more importantly, will this encounter end the same as the last one?

He does not know how much time passes when the pier quivers beneath him all of a sudden. He does not have to turn around to see who it is. The black shape moves to the corner of his eye and Snape speaks up in a low, sombre tone.

“You are lucky as hell, Potter. This curse could have killed you, had you not come here in time.”

Harry looks aside to see the man. He wants to ask many questions, some even connects to his mysterious illness. But most is about that day, back in September, three years ago.

Snape misunderstands his questioning look and explains, “This is a slow acting curse. There was a missing ingredient I could not identify previously. Detecting it determined our next step. It won’t be easy, Potter.”

Harry shrugs, rummaging in his pocket for the notebook. Snape stops him with placing a hand on his. “That won't be necessary anymore. I know the curse, I know how to cure you. You are free to use magic again.”

He is holding out the phoenix wand and Harry takes it without hesitation. It feels great to have it back, it makes the tip of his fingers tingle. The wand, too, warms for a moment, welcoming back its master.

Snape walks to the end of the pier and sits down, the heels of his black boots almost touching the water. Harry joins him and he takes his place next to the man who will save him from death again.

_“_ _Thanks_ ,” he writes in the surface of the water. The one word disappears quickly and Harry is glad because that expression simply does not measure up to how grateful he is.

Snape presses down his heels and the last plank sends waves to erase the writing.

“You don’t have to,” he sighs. “I have my own selfish reasons to do this.”

Harry frowns at the tone, not quite sure where to put it. “ _Yes,_ _”_ his answer appears in the lake once again. “ _Because you always save my life out of pure selfishness._ _”_

Snape huffs next to him and lies back, effectively blocking Harry’s way of communication.

But the young man does not give up just yet. He stretches out too, watching the fluffy white clouds over their heads, then waves his hand towards the sky.

He knows Snape’s eyes are open when he hears the quiet laughter.

“ _Your cat is mad_ ,” says the cumulus over them.

“He is not mine,” comes the answer from Snape.

Harry waves his hand again and the small white cloud changes shape once more. “ _I see you_ _’_ _re not denying the mad part._ _”_

 “No,” Snape huffs. “I would never.” He stretches a hand and pulls back his sleeves revealing the matching red marks. Harry, too, shows his and he spells the cloud to show something else. Instead of letters however, this time they watch a scene. There is a tree and a man on that tree. When the cat jumps towards its face, the man almost falls. It manages to catch the lowest branch just in time.

“He tried to push you off the tree?” Snape laughs. “Yes, I can easily see that happening.”

Harry turns to the side just in time to catch a glimpse of that smile. Watching Snape more intensely now, he waves his hand again and the fluffy cumulus turns into a man with a perky walk, carrying two buckets. Something swift rushes past its feet and the man flails with his arms, almost dropping the buckets.

The buckets are safe, the man falls however and as it hits the imaginary ground, its white cottony body dissolves into the blue sky.

Snape’s laughing again; Harry just smiles, silently.

“Impressive, Potter. Those clouds are almost four thousand feet above us.”

The blush comes out of nowhere and Harry turns away. He has not been expecting a compliment from Snape since he was eleven. Maybe that is why this one touches something deep inside him and makes his heart swell with pride.

“ _It_ _’_ _s nothing, really,_ ” he writes now in the air as he sits up. He avoids the searching black eyes and turns towards the old little boat. “ _So, you go out fishing often?_ _”_

But Snape remains silent and for a moment Harry thinks there might be something wrong. He turns to Snape expecting a frown, but what he gets is the exact opposite.

Snape does not answer, because he has not seen the question. He lies there, eyes closed, enjoying the last warm strokes of sunshine on his face. Harry reaches out almost adding another, even warmer stroke, but stops himself in the last moment. Instead, he touches the slim shoulder to get Snape’s attention.

As Snape opens his eyes, Harry forgets his previous question. He is lost in those endless, dark eyes.

Snape blinks and the magic is broken. He stands then, the plank wobbling under them. “Let’s go back. I still have some tests to make just to be sure. And I’m sure I saw some more apples on those trees,” he adds teasingly.

Harry rolls his eyes at him, but he is grinning. Snape’s thin lips, too, are pulling upwards.

**o.O.o**

The heavy footsteps are approaching him, though Harry knows he would not be noticed right away as the falling yellow leaves hide him from prying eyes. He peeks out through the brunches and observes the old man unnoticed, who is walking towards the house.

There is not much to see as the old face is covered with a grey-black beard. The light blue eyes shine out from the tanned skin, as he is looking around searching for something. He is holding an old pipe between his yellow teeth but it is not smoking – it is unlit and empty.

The mad cat comes and brushes affectionately against the old man’s leg as if welcoming an old friend. Harry thinks if the cat is nice to the person, maybe he should be afraid. Putting however his suspicion away, he climbs off the tree and lands almost in front of the old man.

“Oh, hullo,” greets the bearded stranger Harry.

Only now does Harry realize that they may just have run into some communication malfunction. He gets his notebook out from his back-pocket and writes down a short salutation. When he looks up again, the old man is giving him a strange look. However, when their eyes meet he smiles at Harry.

“Muggles, Mr. Potter, wouldn’t dare come close to this place.”

Harry laughs and bows his head in apology. His wand is in his hand now and he flicks it in the air. “ _Harry, please,_ ” he writes.

“Marcus Wiley, at you service,” he grins showing his yellow teeth. The pipe between his lips lit up all of a sudden and smoke slithers out like a lazy, grey worm. He puffs a couple of times as he holds out a hand to Harry. “Truth be told, I never imagined the great Harry Potter would be any more welcomed here than a simple Muggle.”

There is a strange light in Marcus’ blue eyes that Harry cannot put anywhere, so he just reacts truthfully. “ _I wasn_ _’_ _t. But I lost my voice. And now Snape is helping me to recover it._ ”

“Does he now?” Marcus titters. “That Severus…”

Harry just gives the old man a questioning look.

“Forgive my straightforwardness, Harry, but in my age you either say what you mean or might never say it out loud. Severus does not like you, is what I heard him say several times. And yet, here we are. Here _you_ are.”

The casual statement hits Harry like a hammer in the chest. He feels the air being knocked out of him. He pretends he is not bothered by the sentence and forces a smile on his face. However, the slight tremor in his hand as he carves the words in thin, cold air reveals him.

“ _Snape and I had never been what you would call friendly._ ”

“I’ve known Severus since he was a little boy and let me tell you, friendly isn’t an adjective often used to describe him. Even when he was a child-“

A little monster rears its green eyed head in Harry’s belly. “ _I know how he was when he was little,_ ” Harry writes interrupting Marcus.

“Do you, now? How is that possible?” Marcus asks with a sly glint in his eyes.

Harry is about to answer when a gentle hand on his shoulder stops him. “You would be wise to remain silent. Marcus here used to be a brilliant private investigator, you see, and he is awfully curious as to what happened between us in the past that made me resent the _great_ Harry Potter,” Snape explains with a smirk. When Harry raises an eyebrow at him, Snape just adds, “Yes, I know you aren’t great.”

“Old habits die hard,” says Marcus acting contrite. He blows out a long huff of grey smoke that turns into a snake and slithers away towards the blue sky. He smiles at Harry now honestly, the glint gone from his eyes. “He has refused to answer me for years now. I have my suspicions, but of course, that is not enough. I need hard evidence. I hope as an Auror, you understand, Harry.”

Harry does not, not really at least, but he stays quiet and watches the two men as they greet each other as friends. They shake hands then Marcus even claps Snape on the shoulder a couple of times. “How are my potions doing, boy? Margie seems like she’s getting sick. She’s been sneezing all morning. I told her to stay in bed and leave the baking for next week, but she’s set on humiliating your ass on Sunday.”

Snape laughs before he says, “They are ready, Marcus. I made some extra Pepper-Ups if you need them.

“Nah, just the usual amount should suffice, thanks.”

They turns towards the house. As they walk, Marcus picks up the menacing cat from the ground, who lets out deep rumbles as the old man starts caressing him with his rough hands. Harry pinches Snape’ robes between three fingers to get his attention. To his surprise his hold on Snape’ wrist is not shaken off, and he even has Severus’ attention.

“ _Sunday_?” He mouths, because he does not want to remove his hand from Snape. He is probably pathetic, he realizes and he clings to the man even more.

“There is an Autumn Fair in the town on Sunday. It is organized yearly. Nothing extraordinary, just some hand crafted goods, simple games for children, baking competition for the locals. Marcus’ wife, Margie, is yet to be beaten with her magical cherry pies.”

As they walk, the back of Harry’s fingers accidentally stroke Snape’ hand. Frowning slightly now, the older man looks down. Harry instantly lets go, but his hand is caught. “Your fingers are ice cold, Potter.” Snape informs him as he rubs the blood back into his fingertips. “I’ll make you some tea after Marcus leaves.”

Second time in ten minutes, Harry’s lungs do not seem to function properly. He is breathless but he nods, a silent gasp leaving his mouth as Snape lifts their joined hands to his lips and breathes warm air on them. Harry feels the caressing touch of soft flesh and he cannot help the reaction. His thumb strokes Snape’ lower lips almost on instinct and when he realizes what he has done, he pulls back his hand right away.

For half a second, Snape is the one who seems apologetic, then he rushes forward and catches up to Marcus and the cat.

Once inside, Harry is not sure what to do while the other two deal with their business. He makes some tea while strangely aware of both men’s eyes on him. Galleons and glass vials exchange hands and soon Marcus and Harry are sitting at the table, while Snape is leaning against the counter, all three holding cups of hot Earl Grey.

“So you know what you will bake for Sunday?”

Harry snorts into his hot tea and his glance snaps at Snape, waiting for his answer. Snape stands his gaze and answers directly to him as if to challenge him to laugh. “Oh yes. Margie won’t have a chance this year.”

“You say that every year…” Wiley reacts quietly, earning a murdering glance from his friend.

Harry watches their interaction for a while, mute and not even wanting to contribute. He is more than happy to be the silent observer of how Snape behaves around his friend.

The old man does not seem to bother Snape, even if he is rather blunt in what he means to convey. Maybe that is what Snape likes about him. Their conversation is rife with snide remarks which are not taken seriously. It is a playful banter and after a while it makes Harry smile.

He is far away, thinking about that moment when his fingers stopped being cold, but hearing his name drags him out from his blissful state.

“…Mr. Potter’s ailment?”

“He’s blessedly mute,” Snape answers and Harry screws up his face.

“And why didn’t I read about this in the Prophet yet?” Marcus asks. “They are always so very interested in Harry Potter’s life. Generally, we can read about every little nuance in his life. And when the big things happen, they are silent like… well, him.”

Harry frowns at the old man, not liking the cunning in his voice. He reminds him of Malfoy for some reason and he realizes he does not trust Marcus Wiley at all.

Snape must have realized his state of alertness all of a sudden. “Do not take him seriously, Mr. Potter. Marcus here is old and Slytherin enough to be interested in every small gossip. But he would never sell you out to the Prophet. He is too _honest_ for that.”

“You always think you are insulting me with that, but I still believe I did the right thing and you know I would do it again,” Marcus sighs his blue eyes rolling.

“He used to be a photographer for the prophet. One day, he came upon something and his editor asked him to step down. He refused,” Snape explains.

“He asked me again,” Marcus takes over the story. “This time, he had a huge bag of galleons in his hand, too. Oh he was so cocksure. I was a Slytherin, you see, Mr. Potter and Slytherins are easy to bribe because all we think about is galleons and power. Or at least that’s the common view. Well, I refused again and the next day, my pictures with the story was out. I lost my job but that bastard got into jail, too. I started doing private investigation afterwards. Less money, but morally much more rewarding.”

Harry touches his wand to the dark wood and his yellow words shine up on the surface of the table. “ _That was rather Gryffindor of you, one could say._ ”

Wiley’s eyes go wide and he looks up at Severus. “Why is he insulting me now, all of a sudden?” He asks outraged. “Does he offend you with same invectives?”

Black eyes, dark as a tunnel turn to Harry as Snape answers slowly in a low voice, “He wouldn’t dare.”

Harry just laughs, silently as Marcus huffs and puffs around the kitchen muttering, “Me, a Gryffindor…”

“You know Severus, I would fully understand if by any chance, you unfortunately would _not_ be able to help poor Mr. Harry Potter here,” says the old man just before he leaves the house. His pipe is once again between his teeth, unlit.

“And to deny the world of all he has to say?” Snape smirks scheming.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” Laughs Marcus.

Harry taps the table two times, his eyes on Snape, his glare saying, “Don’t you dare.”

Snape sighs deeply and shrugs. “I’m afraid, Marcus, sometimes we have to do what’s best for others, not what’s best for us.”

Marcus leaves with the cat trailing his every step and it is only the two of them in the kitchen now. “ _I thought you were doing this for selfish reasons_ ,” Harry writes in the table before he drops his head onto his arms. He feels tired all of a sudden, as if being outside all day has only now taken the toll on his body.

He can hear Snape move closer. He raises his head back up and shivers when long, warm fingers touch his nape and snake slowly towards the side of his head. He leans into the touch much like the cat, lets the gentle hand sneak beneath his fringe, seeking his forehead. He has a suspicion that taking his temperature might not be why the hand was so close to him in the first place, but it might be only his hopes speaking.

“I am worried you might get sick again. You should come inside for now and have some rest,” Snape murmurs over him.

He leans with his whole body towards where the voice comes from. The hand has still not moved from his forehead. It is still there, warm and comforting and pulling him closer to an ever warmer body. He nuzzles against the tight belly with the back of his head. In return, a thumb caresses him so softly, it might just be brushing his hair away.

Another hand sneaks over his throat and the tender nudge of a finger makes him lift his chin up. His lips part on their own and his eyes open, too, watching the man leaning over him.

Snape’s face is shadowed by the waterfall of black hair. All Harry can see is the glint in the black eyes and the thin lips.

“ _So selfish_ _…_ ” he mouths mutely as his eyes close once again.

The fingers on his skin tighten as if Snape would want him not to move.

Soft hair tickles the side of his face – too long to be his.

“You have no idea just how selfish a man I am,” Snape breathes so close, Harry can feel the warm air caress his face. He itches to move closer but the fingers are tight enough, holding his head in a cage and he cannot move.

They are stuck in the moment for what it feels like a lifetime, then Harry decides he has waited enough. However the instant he reaches out a hand and touches the soft black hair, Snape pulls back. His fingers are carding through the long tresses as Snape gets further and further away.

By the time he opens his eyes, only the orange tabby cat is there in kitchen with him, watching him avidly with his golden eyes.

**o.O.o**

Severus hides in his potion laboratory, not even pretending anymore that he has something to do down there. He refuses to go upstairs as long as Potter might be awake. Who knows where some late night chit-chat might lead?

He shudders when he recalls the force of the temptation in the kitchen. He swallows back the sense of lust that comes with it and bathes in the self-hatred that usually follows these thoughts.

The cat is scratching the door but he ignores the distracting noise and instead sinks neck deep into his own treacherous mind, which is like a minefield currently, full of dangerous thoughts. He has to manoeuvre carefully and not let himself wander away from the narrow path he thinks is safe.

Hours go by. He does not move. He just sits at his desk, arms folded on his chest. His eyes are closed and he keeps reciting the steps of the potion he already made to heal Potter. His back is painfully strait, but he does not let himself relax – it never leads to anywhere good when he lets down his barriers even for a moment.

His fingertips tingle still and he feels the soft touch of Potter’s skin. What on earth is he doing? This needs to stop. This, whatever this is, will lead to nowhere just pain and more likely ridicule.

He looks at the old black clock that hangs on the wall over his desk. It is almost midnight. He stands, but staggers as the long sitting made his limbs sore. He is old, too old for this, for hiding, for Potter.

Tired, he drags himself up the stairs and opens the door as quiet as he can. There is still light in the kitchen but not much. Only one candle is lit, its light enough to bring brightness to the countertop but nothing more. Severus walks there to blow it out but something makes him stop.

There is a plate of food and a note next to it. He takes it and leans closer to the candle to read it.

**You** **’** **ve disappeared for hours** , says the note and Severus can sense the reproachful tone. **I was hungry. Molly taught me this recipe: it** **’** **s just some honey-mustard chicken with apples. It** **’** **s under stasis, so it should still be warm.**

**PS: Your Riesling goes well with it.**

“Did he open my…” Severus grunts half-mad as he turns to the fridge. And indeed in there is his cherished bottle of Riesling, the prize he received for his gigantic pumpkins last year.

He pulls out the cork and pours himself a glass, not able to bring himself to be angry at Potter. The food is good, tasty and spicy but mild and mellow at the same time. And it is even better with the wine.

When he finishes he walks out of the kitchen, the candle spelled to follow him hovering over his head. As he walks past Potter’s motionless body something catches his eyes. It is only the glint of his glasses but it forces him to walk there.

Potter is in his sleeping shirt and boxers, shivering. He is only warmed by the curled up cat on his chest. He is lying on his back, his closed eyes turned towards Severus. Was he waiting for Severus to show up? Did he simply fall asleep so fast he forgot to take off his glasses? Severus wonders for moments, then drapes a thick blanket over the young man and adds a non-verbal warming charm just to be sure.

He brushes away the black locks and gently removes the old round glasses. He places them on the table nearby and is ready to move away, but his legs are not willing to carry him. He keeps squatting there, next to the sleeping man, fingers buried in thick ebony mane. He watches Potter’s young face and hates himself for what he wants to do.

He resists the temptation once again, but just barely. He kisses Potter’s forehead only and murmurs half-aloud, “Selfishness has many forms, Mr. Potter. Saving you so that _I_ can see you again is one of them.”


	4. Apple Dumplings and Pumpkin Brûlée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There are no words to describe how I and I'm sure most of you feel today. I do not know how to express the sorrow that settled on my heart since I woke up this morning and heard these terrible news. So sudden, so soon, so unexpected... Alan Rickman was an amazing, beautiful, brilliant soul, one of a kind. His smile never failed to cheer me up, his talent filled me with awe, his voice warmed my heart. And it pains me, pains me greatly that I am writing this in past tense, because I will never hear him laugh again. Never will I hear that beautiful voice that rings in all our ears when we read Severus Snape's name. Never will I see him perform something new, showing me another one of his many faces._
> 
> _"Always," said Snape about his love for Lily and all I can say is the same. Always, Alan. I will love you, always. You were magnificent and I will always hear your voice in my heart._
> 
> _I do not post this chapter now to cheer you up and definitely not to get sympathy reviews. I post it to ask you, stop reading for a moment, stop your music, stop your world and for only a single moment, remember this great person many of us grew to love deeply._
> 
> _Thank you._  
>  ____  
> "Actors are agents of change. A film, a piece of theater, a piece of music, or a book can make a difference. It can change the world." ( **Alan Rickman** ) 

He wakes with the sun this morning. He is cosy and warm and he does not want to move from under the blanket. The blanket he is sharing with someone, he realizes when he feels the weight of the other body over him. Is it a head, he wonders for minutes but then realizes the couch would be too small for another human being.

The cat! It comes to him the next moment and he all but jumps. But the cat is calm for now, sound asleep, looking like a ball of fur and nothing else. He tries to move, to slither out from beneath him, but the animal is displeased for being disturbed. Harry takes the risk of waking him up and simply gathers him in in his arm as he sits up.

The cat stirs for a moment, but otherwise, he continues to sleep. The rising sun through the huge windows catches Harry’s eyes and he decides to move outside.

At first he feels the air to be cold, reaching all the way down to his bones, chilling his blood. He shivers, for moments, his teeth clatter even. Then he sits down on the small loveseat on the back porch, and sinks into the myriad of soft pillows. He huddles up, pulling his legs to his chest, where the rumbling tabby cat nestled himself.

They are in a small valley. The hills before them cover up the rising sun, but the first rays are already lighting up the trees on top of the hill. It is almost frightful as the autumn colours are now highlighted even more. It seems like there is a fire coming down the small mount, burning everything it touches. Harry knows that feeling, lives it daily now that he moved in with his former teacher. Such a short time and yet a lot has changed, mostly inside him.

He hears the door open at first, then smells the scent of bergamot.

“Good morning, Potter,” says Snape quietly as he sits down next to him and hands a big mug of Earl Grey to him.

They drink for a while in silence, sharing a blanket. There is not much to say, the sunrise is talking for now instead of them. Slowly, as the sun goes higher and higher the whole valley gets lit up. The crows invade the pumpkin field once more, a whole murder of them. Further behind, the huge mirror breaks up into pieces as the frogs launch into their morning swim.

The fog that sits over the water slowly evaporates and soon Harry can see the trees on the other side. The duck family he scared yesterday is coming back. Mom and dad and the five little ducklings form a long line as they cross the surface of the lake.

“There is undoubtedly something magical in this, isn't there?”

Harry nods and puts down his empty mug. Instead he has his wand in hand now. “ _One last smile before the dead winter_.”

“The loveliest, one might say,” answers Snape, black eyes stuck on the scenery before them.

Harry flicks his wand, not quite ready of what will come out of it.

“ _Why are you helping me? You don_ _’_ _t even like me_.”

To his surprise, Snape laughs. The sound is deep, resonating through Harry’s bones like a wave of cold wind. “That didn’t stop me when you were young either. I _loathed_ you, Potter. And I still helped you the best I could.”

Harry is glowering at the man but he is incredulous at the same time. How can Snape say that when he is right next to him under the same blanket?

“Loathed?” He mouths.

“Oh, very much so. For a while.”

“ _THANKS_!” burn the angry yellow letters in the air before them. Harry scowls at the man one more time, then his eyes return to the calming scenery before them. What did he expect, really? He came here knowing this. Just because Snape let him stay it does not mean… it means nothing. He had his reasons, the man said so. His selfish reasons.

“Potter,” says Snape strictly but Harry can hear the glee in his voice and he refuses to turn towards him even more. He looks the other way instead. A huge, black crow looks back at him from the field.

“Potter, listen,” Snape tries again, but Harry is stubborn and cold and he does not feel like listening to anything all of a sudden. Even the sunrise lost its magic. It is just light and trees and water; nothing he has not seen before.

“Look at me, Harry,” Snape says in a low tone, that is almost just a whisper.

It is not even his first name that makes Harry turn towards the man at last, but the hand that captured his.

The sun finally tumbles over the rolling hills and the warm rays caress Harry’s skin, warming him up from deep inside. Or maybe, this has nothing to do with the sun.

He watches Snape now, but the man is silent. His eyes are on the sun, and all the blackness seems to have disappeared from there. It is orange like the tabby cat’s, which is still sleeping peacefully in Harry’s lap.

“The Indian Summer, Mr. Potter, lasts only for a short while. You cannot trust it. Winter will come eventually.” Harry is not sure what Snape wants to tell him, but he keeps listening. “You arrived here just at the right time. The sun is still strong and the hills trap its warmness. But soon the lake will freeze, the ground will turn hard and dead, the birds will leave. There will be nothing here just huge piles of snow and harsh wind.”

As he speaks in low voice, Snape is trailing Harry’s scratch marks from yesterday. There are many and Harry cannot stand the sensation much longer. The gentle caress is almost sensual. This time it is Snape’s hand that is cold and Harry is the one who runs a couple degrees warmer. The fingertip feels like an icicle from the promised harsh winter and it makes Harry shiver wildly.

“I don’t loath you, Potter. I don’t even not like you. I’m helping you, because I want to.”

Harry watches Snape’s profile wondering what exactly the man is trying to tell him. He knows these features, and yet now they look different. Maybe the light and the shadows play a game with him, maybe the years that past since they have met has changed Snape. Maybe the years changed Harry. Maybe both.

But along the road, something became different. The long nose does not make Harry laugh now. The skin does not remind him of parchment. The sharp features do not frighten him.

Snape is aware that he is being observed, but he does not look at Harry. The only indication that he noticed is that the stroking stopped. His orange eyes are still on the hills, the lake, the animals.

He is waiting for judgement, Harry realizes.

He flicks his wand. His words come out burning yellow. “ _Every season has its beauty_ ,” he scribbles into thin air. He watches as Snape's eyes follow his handwriting. The letters slowly start to turn orange and then become red. Before they would fade, he adds more beneath the first sentence. “ _Winter_ _’_ _s is its coldness. The coldness that gives someone a chance to warm you up_.”

Cold fingers close around his kidnapped hand, taking the only thing he can offer: the last warm touch of the Indian summer.

* * *

 

Lunch is coming along nicely. The chicken pot pie should be sitting in the oven for about fifteen more minutes. Severus is pleased about this recipe of his, even Margie comments on how nice it is every time she comes over for dinner.

The cat is impatiently pacing in front of the oven waiting to pounce on the result when it finally comes out from the heat. Severus keeps brushing him away with his feet but the animal always returns, no matter how far he is pushed. He gives up the fight in the end and sweeps the animal up from the ground and marches outside.

Potter is raking the yellow leaves from under the apple trees but he looks up when he hears Severus approaching.

Severus is not yet used to the warm smile that welcomes him every time they run into each other since this morning. He tries to ignore it the best he can mostly to calm his insides from sneaking around in his body. He drops the cat in one of the piles.

“Keep it occupied if you want to have lunch today,” he instructs Potter. He turns away from Potter and the animal, but suddenly the rake stabs him lightly in the back.

As he turns, his cloak flares. Potter is not afraid though he sees Severus’ frown. He points up at the sky. Severus follows the direction and sees a small dot that is flying right towards them.

They are watching it approach, standing next to each other. The cat is playing in the leaves, rolling around, chasing insects.

Potter recognizes the bird before Severus, he utters the name but of course, no sound comes out of his mouth. Not even a sigh. Severus however notices it and looks at him first then back at the bird.

“Molly,” he says quietly and he is right. That is the Weasley’s family owl, Errol, in the sky.

Errol drops from the air and all but falls into their hands. Potter is keeping the bird safe, while Severus opens the letter that was addressed to him.

“Hah!” He exclaims after two lines. “Perfect timing, Molly dear…” he adds calmer.

Potter tries to peak into the letter, but Severus snaps it out of his view and folds it in half.

“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes. I’ll be busy in the afternoon, I suggest you find something to do as well. We can get the missing ingredient only tonight at around midnight.”

He turns to walk towards the house, but suddenly Potter’s yellow writing in the air shows up right in front of him.

“ _What was that?_ ”

He brushes away the letters with a wave of his hand and keeps walking. The letters show up again couple feet ahead of him. This time, he stops and turns on his heels. He is smirking as he replies, “My reward for helping you.”

The outrage is written on Potter’s face. He is almost scary for a moment. He brandishes his phoenix wand and more words fly towards Severus. “ _REWARD? You accepted money from the Weasleys? How much_?”

The words disappear only inches from his face but Severus can still feel the heat of them. “It’s not gold, Potter. It’s something much more valuable.”

He could just say what it is, but he enjoys seeing Potter angry. This is the Potter he is used to, not the warmly smiling one. He likes the other one more, but this one is less confusing.

“ _What_?” Burns the word in front of Severus. “ _What did you want from them? What can they give you that I can_ _’_ _t_?”

Severus is hesitating for only a moment, but Potter takes the chance. He swishes his wand that is already in his hand anyway and the letter flies to him. Now Severus’ smirk is even more self-satisfied. Potter is grasping into the piece of parchment as his eyes follow the lines. His fingers are so tense he almost tears the paper.

He looks up at Severus then back down. He looks up again.

“Recipes!? _Cooking_ recipes!?” Potter screams at him and though not a word comes out of his mouth Severus understands him clearly.

“Those aren’t just simple recipes, Potter. Molly guards those like a tiger. No one knows how to make her Pumpkin Brûlée and it is heavenly. Not to mention her Apple Dumplings.”

Potter launches into another speech but this time his words are lost on Severus.

“Potter… Potter! You are making no sense! You are still mute! I do not understand you.”

Potter stops and looks around. For a second he seems like he is looking for something to throw at Severus. He cannot find anything so he throws the letters. The wind is ready to pick them up and fly away but Severus is quick too and pulls the two pages in with an Accio.

“Oi, this is worth a lot to me!” Severus grumbles tucking the recipes in his inner pocket. He turns to leave and get the pot pies out from the oven, leaving the fuming Potter outside. He is almost at the stairs when a sudden wind knocks him nearly over. It is not just wind. A huge pile of leaves is dumped onto his neck too.

He turns around slowly this time, leaving Potter ample time to run away and save himself.

But Potter goes nowhere, he is still standing there, his wand drown. A slow, satisfied grin is spreading on his tempting lips.

The boy has still not learned his lesson, Severus thinks remembering their wandfights from years ago. His black wand is in his hand and spitting out a spell before even Potter could recall a counterattack. It hits the young man right in the middle of the chest and sends him backwards.

Potter falls to the ground, right into the middle of the bundle of leaves he had previously raked together. Severus marches there and stands over him, looking down as menacing as he can.

But it is all in vain. Potter is grinning back at him. He grasps into the leaves and raises his hand. Severus has just enough time to show Potter his ‘don’t you dare’ expression then the dry, colourful leaves smack into his face.

“Potter!” He thunders at the young man. He wants to step closer and he is too late to notice the orange blur that brushes against his feet. This is the revenge for putting the cat out and denying the chicken pot pie from him, he is certain.

He falls face forward in the leaves to avoid stepping on the mad cat. He lands half way over Potter. He feels the man beneath him struggle, his body contracting from pain most likely. He leans up fast and looks over at Potter, searching for signs of hurt.

But the idiot is laughing. He is laughing so hard in his silent state in fact that his tears are streaming on the side of his face. Severus cannot help, he is just staring at him.

The cat saunters on top of Severus and hisses at the madly laughing Potter. Severus does the same.

Potter finally opens his eyes and quiets down slightly. He is still grinning from ear to ear.

Severus is unimpressed.

Potter lifts his wand and writes in the air over them. “ _You should have seen your face_ _…_ _that sheer PANIC_ _…_ ”

“I am glad my misfortune caused you delight once again,” Severus growls at Potter.

“ _You deserved it, you selfish bastard_ ,” Potter writes now. The words are harsh but the smile is still on his face. “ _I could have helped you with those recipes._ ”

“Oh of course you could,” Severus grumbles, painfully aware that he is still lying over the young man and even worse he has no desire to move away.

Potter is fortunately not bothered by his presence. “ _You were right, Molly guards those like a tiger_.”

“Don’t I know that, Potter? I’ve been trying to get my hands on them for years. But she doesn’t share it with anyone.”

The letters burn yellow over their heads and reading them makes Severus lightly anxious. “ _And that_ _’_ _s where you_ _’_ _re wrong._ ” Potter informs him. “ _She_ _’_ _s more than happy to share it with her family_.”

“Yes well, I’m not very close to any of the Weasley spawns now, am I?” Huffs Severus shaking his head lightly.

That strange warm smile is back on Potter’s handsome face, and it is almost more disturbing than the fact that the young man is still calmly lying beneath Severus. Or that in fact, he is brushing a lock of raven black hair behind Severus’ cold ears so that he can look more clearly in his face.

The green eyes are trying to tell something to him. They are filled with amusement and something else, mischief maybe.

Then another line gleams right between them. The yellow words reflect on Potter’s round glasses. “ _You are actually lying on one of them_ _…_ ”

Yes, there is definitely mischief in those bright green eyes and Severus is swept away by temptation again. He pushes himself up and scampers away a few feet, trying to convince himself that his motions did not reflect a cowardly escape but were fine and elegant as usual.

To correct his mistake and prove he is not afraid, especially not in his own home, he walks back after brushing down all the leaves from his robes and holds out a hand to Potter. As he hauls the man up, the words that were being said finally gets to him as well.

“You know these recipes?” He asks close to awe.

Potter nods with a cheeky smile. “ _These and many more_ …” the words shine up in front of them. “ _But she left out the most important thing from the Apple dumpling._ ” He inserts with a shrug, walking away from Severus.

“Nice try, Potter!” Severus cries after him, self-assured that he knows Molly Weasley enough not to trick him.

But when an hour later he triumphantly takes out the first four apple dumplings from the oven, even from the smell he can tell there is something wrong. Only a side glance is enough to see that Potter is leaning smugly against the counter, legs and arms crossed. He is mouthing something and Severus has an awful suspicion it is, “I told you so.”

He cuts one of the dumplings in half and though the desserts looks absolutely delicious as the juicy inside emerges along the cut, he knows this is not the recipe he wanted.

He cuts down a piece and tries it. Oh, it is heavenly. But Molly’s is better. This is too sweet, the raisin in his mouth makes him shudder.

He looks at Potter judgingly as if he had done something with the dessert to make it bad. The young man has been standing next to him in the past hour watching his every move silently, however, not touching anything. Severus is sure it was not him, yet he stares at the man with condemn.

“I cannot believe Molly Weasley had the audacity to trick me.”

Potter is shaking his head but he is smiling again, now that Severus is speaking to him once more.

“ _She did not trick you_ ,” this time the letters show up engraved in the green cupboard over Severus’ head, just to vanish without a trace a few seconds later. “ _That is the original recipe that has been in the Prewett family for centuries._ ”

Severus looks back at him with confusion. He does not understand why Molly would trick him. She loves Potter as her own child. And yet, he is sure this is not the dumpling he tasted many years ago.

He voices the thought aloud. “This is good, Potter, but it is not what I had. Not what I wanted.”

“ _That_ _’_ _s because you tried this three years ago on that party she organized for us. For getting the Order of Merlins,_ ” Potter states with confidence.

“How do you know that?” Severus inquires not wanting to look back at those dark times. The hatred between him and Potter was still almost palpable back then. He was a lot less than what he is now and most people despised him and he thought even less about himself. Things changed as Potter spoke to the newspapers more and more of the years that had past, straightening out facts and dissolving rumours.

“ _I was there_ ,” Potter reacts simply but Severus can tell there is something behind the short answer. “ _And so was Ginny Weasley_.”

“What does she have to do with my recipe?” Severus demands.

“ _A lot actually_ ,” shine the yellow letters on the green cupboard. “ _You see, Ginny Weasley is allergic to raisins._ ”

Severus eyes the apple dumplings. He knows there is exactly twenty-seven pieces of raisins in these four desserts. He catches the yellow flare from the corner of his eyes; he barely misses the next message.

“ _She never uses the raisins when Ginny is there, because she loves this. It_ _’_ _s actually one of her favourite treats. Molly wants her to be able to have some._ ”

Severus looks over at Potter and sees several emotions cross those eyes. Reminiscence of past sweet feelings, fondness and perhaps love. He wonders what had happened between Potter and the Weasley chit that they have broken up – the Prophet never gave a good reason.

Potter just laughs it off, though the echo of his fond smile is still there when he looks back at Severus.

“ _So she uses cranberry instead. Twenty, to be precise_.”

The moment Severus has the information, he rushes to the pantry looking for some. He thinks himself the luckiest man when he finds an unopened bag. He sweeps back into the kitchen, where Potter is waiting for him with an empty bowl and flour. “ _May I help?_ ” hover the letters over the bag written in the white dust.

“Be my guest,” Severus sighs. “It seems to me, Mr. Potter, that you know better what I want than I myself do.”

More flour lifts into the air, showing Potter’s reply, “ _Now you just have to listen to me_.”

Severus cannot resist the evil grin. “Oh Potter, I eagerly listen to every word you _utter_.”



* * *



Snape does not let him try any of the desserts until they are ready with all of them. Which is a lot. Trays and trays of pumpkin brûlée and baskets upon baskets of apple dumplings line the kitchen table, which squeaks weakly every time a new item weights down on it. Harry suspects it will soon give out on them.

He knows if he made just one mistake and the apple dumpling does not taste how it should, Snape will most certainly kill him. He is sure of himself, but then again, he does not have a large beak to smell out all the perfect ingredients and precise taste to tell the difference between two completely identical apples.

Harry prepared these treats many times. It was usually him who helped in the kitchen while the others set up the huge table outside. He loved assisting Molly, and he was proud of himself when she trusted him with Ginny’s version of the dessert, while she made the rest with the raisins. Harry and Ginny were after all a couple.

His eyes wander towards the bag of raisins, thinking fondly back of those days. It did not last long, but it made Harry happy. After the war, he lived with the Weasley, while the wizarding world rebuilt itself. He did nothing during that summer, but help at home and at Hogwarts, while visiting trial after trial. He lived content with Ginny, enjoying their reclaimed freedom.

His hand stray to his pocket where the little picture still hides, its figures still moving relentlessly, never giving up, never stopping, never looking away. That picture changed everything. The happy summer ended and autumn came, colder but refreshing. They broke up and Harry finished his N.E.W.T.s. He started Auror training. He left behind the summer that felt like the perfect holiday where he could pretend not to be himself and returned to reality, which in the end, brought him here.

He cannot complain, he realizes as he watches the small brown, wrinkled raisins.

He is not aware of the dark eyes watching him. “Do you still love her?”

Harry looks up at Snape and he is sure the man did not want to ask him that question. He seems almost as surprised as Harry.

Harry barely even touches his wand, the raisins rise in the air. “ _No_ ,” they dance in front of Snape’s eyes. “ _I love the life where she led me_.”

Snape does not know what to say, how to react. He is only watching Harry, his gaze almost a stare now, looking into the depth of Harry’s mind and, eventually, soul. It is almost like Legilimensy, only without magic.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds broken, his tone low. “Don’t abuse my raisins, Potter.” He says, shoving an apple dumpling into Harry’s mouth before stalking away somewhere.

Harry is smirking as he chews on the treat, which tastes exactly like Molly’s. He walks after Snape and hears the back door close just as he steps into the living room. He observes what Snape is doing from the warmer side of the huge windows.

The full moon shines on Snape as the man levitates two pumpkins after himself. He drops them near the lake, and regards them for a minute more, his hands on his slim waist. Then he turns around and wind catches into his long black hair, carding through the strands like a gentle lover.

Harry walks out, not quite sure what he intends to do. He knows what he wants to, but his brain keeps shouting at him not to finish the action.

Snape raises his eyes from the ground and his gaze turns over Harry. His relentless steps halter for a second, but he walks on. He dashes up the stairs, and Harry opens his mouth. He wants to speak now more than ever. He wants to whisper that name, but not a sound comes out of his throat, not even the desperate sigh he utters when Snape walks past him and goes inside.

He sits down on the stairs, forcing himself to stay outside and cool down. He does not know how much time passes. He is phased out, deep in his thoughts, and he only comes around when he realizes what he has been watching are small animals dancing just at the edge of the lake. He is about to jump up when a hand pushes him back down.

“Yes, Potter, you see that correctly. This is what we’ve been waiting for all evening.”

Snape, hunched low, steps next to him and sits down too. A little fawn looks up towards the house but then returns giddily hopping around the pumpkins Snape placed there. There is a wolf and a bear cub chasing her too in a wild race, zig-zagging between and over the huge pumpkins. There is something smaller dashing around the ground, but Harry cannot tell in the darkness.

Harry feels the disillusionment charm hit him and he shudders.

“Shall we go closer,” Snape prompts quietly.

They sneak around towards the lake, hiding behind trees. Only the fawn seems to notice something is out of place, as she stops sometimes, listening carefully, her ears prickling.

Suddenly Harry can hear something rustle in the dry leaves. He looks down just in time to see Snape’s heavy ropes disappearing behind a larger stone. Snape manoeuvres them on the ground, trying to get them to the happily playing animals before they notice it.

Harry can feel the magic in the air and he suspects it is not just Snape or him. There is something bigger going on. He cannot tell what, though he suspects, the animals have to do with it. He watches them eagerly, their mischievous dashing, spirited, giddy game of tag uplifting his soul.

He barely realizes the change, which seems so natural his brain just simply does not comprehend what it perceives. The fawn is not running anymore on four legs but on two. Her small head covered with short, curly brown hair. Her ears are still long and more deer like than human, and she even has a small white-brown tail. Her skin is auburn like her fur was, but her eyes shine green in the moonlight. Her pretty, human face is covered in white freckles.

The wolf cub is a boy now, his skin shines in the moonlight, almost reflecting it. His ears are pointy and his hair light grey and unruly. For a moment, Harry believes he is wearing boots, but in fact that is black fur around his small legs, just as the discolouring on his animal form.

He is smacked onto the ground by another boy, black skinned and black haired with huge black eyes. He looks chubby and soft and he giggles in a deeper voice than the others. Long ears poke out from behind the pumpkin and next another smaller girl, tiny in fact, runs out, her short legs barely able to carry her enthusiasm.

She is definitely faster in her rabbit form, Harry thinks, and just as the thought crosses his mind, she falls to the cold ground. Harry cannot help the laugh that breaks up from his throat, but luckily, no one can hear him.

The tiny rabbit girl looks up from the ground and Harry expects her to break into tears, but the bear boy helps her up and they continue playing hands in hand.

The pretty fawn girl and the wolf boy stop for a moment to smell the sweet scent of the pumpkin, then they clap their small hands jumping in the air. Then they start dashing around again too, giggling and chuckling exactly like excited children.

Harry has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He sees the rope sneaking in the grass like a menacing snake ready to slash out and sink its fangs into soft flesh. He is too late. He cannot stop the snake.

The ropes entwine around the little fawn girl who falls onto the ground. The others instantly turn back into animals and dash away. The bear and the rabbit are the first to reach the line of the forest and they disappear quickly. The wolf lingers behind, not sure what to do: go back for his friend who is struggling against the ropes, or save his own life. When he notices Snape who moves out from behind the dark tree, the boy decides that the enemy is too large for him. He sprints away too, letting out a desperate cry from the safety of the forest.

Harry all but feels heartbroken as he edges closer to the little girl, whom the magical ropes does not even let change form. There are tears streaming on her freckled face, her green eyes now glistening wetly in the full moon.

“I have never seen one in human form,” Snape says sounding indifferent. He walks around the child observing, measuring her.

Harry is scared for what is about to come, he is scared for the little girl, and terrified of what kind of a man Snape has become.

“ _We need to find another way_ _…_ ” his letter shine angry white now, his handwriting shaking and barely readable.

“There is no other way,” Snape answers, turning his back to the little girl. “If you want to speak ever again, if you want to _live_ , she is the key.” His dark eyes are determined.

The little girl must understand them as she wails even louder. Her cries are answered with a gloomy howl from the edge of the forest. Harry feels his eyes water as he watches her, struggling and crying. She is so innocent, just a child, terrified of the world. And them.

He can see the glint of the silver knife as it flashes in the moonlight.

Harry knows now why Snape never let him in the plan, why he never told him the last ingredient. Now he is almost as terrified as the little girl.

He acts fast, he brandishes his wand, before Snape could even move or react with a counter-curse. The ropes tear apart and fall off her. She sits on the ground, not understanding what just happened. She looks from Harry to Snape who is just as befuddled as she is. Then she turns.

She sprints away, four thin long legs unsteady at first but then she is faster than thought. She is bleating happily by the time she reaches the forest.

Snape rounds on him, his voice is angry but he is not shouting. He is hissing which Harry finds even scarier. “ _What_ have you done?”

 “ _I won_ _’_ _t let you hurt her_ ,” shine Harry’s words in the darkness between them.

“You fool!” Snape grunts. “You noble fool!”

Harry can tell he is furious. His wand moves fast in the air but he wishes more than anytime before that he can talk. What talk, he wants to shout and scream. “ _A few days ago, you didn_ _’_ _t even want to help me and now you would be willing to kill an innocent girl? What is wrong with you? You should know me better than this Snape! I would rather die than let anyone else get hurt because of me_!”

As his words fade slowly, Snape’s dark eyes narrow. He stalks closer and grabs into the front of Harry’s jacket. “And that’s the difference between the two of us, Potter. I have _killed_ to keep you safe. And I would kill again… Because that’s how important you are to the Wizarding World, to the Weasleys, to…”

Harry waits looking intently into those dark eyes. He waits for that sentence to be finished. He wants to hear it, he _needs_ to, but Snape pushes him away instead of saying what he wanted.

“I didn’t have to kill her, Potter. I needed only a strand of her human hair. One lock of an innocent nymph’s hair, that is what the recipe wants, Potter. But if it was her blood I needed to cure you, _I_ would do it, because that is me, Potter. The man who is willing to do what others won’t, to save _you_. And now, thanks to your heroic foolishness, you sentenced yourself to _death_!”

Harry only now realizes, the reason why the man is angry is not because of what Harry had done. It is because he, too, is scared for Harry.

“Why?” Harry mouths knowing the moonlight is strong enough for Snape to read his lips. He steps closer to Snape and repeats. “Why?”

“You are an idiot…” Snape answers quietly, voice trembling slightly.

Harry shakes his head and steps again just a bit closer. “Why?” He asks again soundlessly. He needs to know why _his_ death would scare Severus Snape.

“You are important, Potter. The Wizarding World counts on-“

Shaking his head again Harry covers Snape’s lips with his hand to silence him. As his palm slowly slides down onto the man’s heaving chest, he says voicelessly again, “Why?”

Snape looks at him as if he would be in a trance. His hands come up and his long fingers settle on both sides of Harry’s neck. “Because I need to… hear your voice once more.” Snape’s deep, quiet tone seems uncertain.

“And?” Harry asks then mutely not failing to notice that Snape’s dark eyes are stuck on his lips.

Snape presses their foreheads together, perhaps to stop himself doing something else. “You are… too important… to _me_.”

There are other words left unsaid, Harry can tell but Snape’ eyes are closed and therefore any attempt for further communication is doomed between them.

Instead, Harry stands there motionless until all the worry flees Snape’s body. He moves away only when he feels Snape relax and let go of him, too.

His words shine bright by the time Snape opens his eyes. “ _We_ _’_ _ll still have a full moon tomorrow. We_ _’_ _ll try again but no tricks, this time. We ask her_. _And if she says no, or if she doesn_ _’_ _t come, we find another way._ _”_

“As you wish,” Snape answers voice still slightly coarse. He bows his head lightly before he steps past Harry and stalks away without even a side glance at him.



* * *



The wind howls outside, or maybe it is the wolf boy, happy to get his friend back. Severus cannot sleep, he is turning round and round the bed. So does Potter downstairs, judging by the continuous fidgeting noises.

He turns to his back and lies there open-eyed. Until he sees the yellow letters, which slowly turn red he does not realize he actually expected them.

“ _You don_ _’_ _t have to worry. There are other nymphs around, if these aren_ _’_ _t willing to help._ ”

“Yes, I know.” Severus says, but he does not add what makes him truly worried. Other nymphs they might find but they cannot rush the full moon to appear again. The children only switch to the human form during the full moon but Potter will not live to see the next.

“ _Just think of Margie when she tries your apple dumplings tomorrow. That ought to lift your mood._ ”

The thought makes Severus smile. But nothing can take his reeling mind of the consequences of not getting that lock of hair from the nymphs. He looks into the darkness, knowing, if they do not succeed tomorrow this emptiness will be his future.

“ _Good night,_ ” he reads the next message as it hovers over his head. He is waiting for something else to appear after the comma. He has to wait a moment, which feels longer than time would show, but then it arrives, burning red in the darkness: “ _Severus_.”

He reaches out a hand, almost touching the seven letters. He feels the warmness of the air, sees his name slowly fade away, and he remains silent. 

Then finally, when everything is dark again, he replies, but does not give in to the pulling temptation. “Sleep now,” he says aloud and then adds lower than a whisper, “you fool.”


	5. Captured Desires

Severus rouses later than usual. It is way past six and even seven now, the sun is high enough that a stream of light crosses right over his eyes. He stirs away from the beam and stretches his sleep numb body. He is thankful to the sun, but not to Potter. He damns the foolish boy for not waking him sooner. They still have a lot to do before the fair.

He has to sit up to realize that Potter’s presence in his home has stimulated parts of his body that has been untouched for a while. As his feet sink into the lush carpet, he wonders for a moment what it would feel like to give in the needs of his body, to touch where he should not, but instead he derides himself mentally.

He pushes through the bathroom door not even looking down on his body though the evidence of the changes Potter is making him suffer through is poking through the thin, worn material of his pyjama bottoms.

He goes straight to the loo to piss without even a glance at himself in the mirror, afraid of who would look back.

A part of him knows he is lost the moment he takes out his cock. The first touch on the sensitive skin sends a wave a pleasure down his groin. And yet he still holds on, lie after lie comes to his mind. He tells himself he can resist this as well, as he has resisted temptation for so long.

But his mind is not as strong just yet; it is still almost half asleep. The reasons, the self-hatred, the control is dazed and something inside decides it is not willing to listen anymore to the weak excuses.

His thumb twitches – or so he wishes to call that unintentional move that signals his body’s betrayal. Another rush of heavy arousal courses through his veins.

The worst part is, he does not even remember the last time he experienced an orgasm.

His next move is fully deliberate, he cannot even fool himself now. His strokes are almost punishingly firm, as if he would try to remind his body never to betray him ever again. But his body, much like the very person that caused this treachery in the first case, does not care: it enjoys, it keens, it tenses.

His skin prickles all over his body, unlike any other day this time not because of the chill of the morning. The muscles in the small of his back tighten as he refuses to thrust forward. There are certain limits and he has not lost control completely. Or so he believes. On the other hand, his body proves him wrong once again.

Feebly, he falls forward. His hand on the brown tiles is the only reason he is not kneeling on the floor just yet, bending over the loo as he jerks himself. He holds on for a full minute then he is pushing forward, pressing into his tight fist. He swears half aloud and once there is a sound coming out from between his lips there is no stopping. A string of other sounds follows. More cursing, moans, gasps. A name, over and over again.

The moment Potter’s name slips out of his mouth he knows he lost it all. The control, the fight against temptation, probably even his right mind. He slows down almost immediately and instead of the cold reality enters into a lukewarm daydream where he is not thrusting into his hand but into another warm body, where he is not touching smooth tiles but instead hot, sweaty skin is sliding underneath his palm, where not only his grunts are heard but also Potter’s needy moans as he pushes back, wanting to get closer to Severus, wanting to feel his caress, wanting to be held by him.

There is no build up, no tell-tale tightening of his muscles like he remembers. His orgasm is wild, blinding, not the kind that leaves you sated and satisfied.

He is not satisfied, not even nearly. Even as he is panting leaning against the tiles, locks of hair stuck to his wet lips, he knows he could be ready for more within minutes. The dam is broken, control is lost and he damns himself, now awake enough to fully comprehend what just happened. This was not just a slip up he can forget as the day proceeds. This will haunt him every second he looks at Potter. These few minutes will be there during all their conversations. This desire will not be tame anymore, it will be lurking there now, more brazen, more unwilling to be ignored.

He cleans up with a towel and goes to the sink to wash his hand. He tries to avoid his reflection but he cannot help it. He looks up.

He wants to spit on the man who looks back.

He hates the weak man because he knows his desires, his wishes and he knows they are both hopeless now. There is plea for forgiveness in the weak man’s dark eyes, his thin lips quiver, knowing what he has done. The weak man hates himself and Severus hates him too. He gave up, he stepped through a line and there is no way back now. But there is no way forward either.

_Who would want you?_ Severus asks the weak man silently, as he rinses the semen off his hand. _You are old, you are bitter, you are_ nothing _to him._

He puts all the hatred into his gaze as he glares at the weak man. The weak man glares back just as intently and the glass of the mirror cracks.

Severus finally looks away. There is a lot to do.

**o.O.o**

The reason why Potter did not wake him up is simply because Potter is still asleep. Severus lets him sleep as they had a long day behind them and an even longer ahead. The reason is definitely not that he does not want to even go near the man at the moment, he tells himself.

He is expected at the fair only around ten, which means he still has almost two hours to pack everything and go there. He busies himself with packing the brûlées and dumplings into two large baskets. No one has to know the small charms he placed on the treats to keep them warm. Margie does the same, so he does not feel like he is cheating.

When everything is packed neatly, Earl Grey streams out of the tea kettle and the bacon and eggs quietly sizzle in the pan but Potter is still not awake, Severus realizes it is up to him to wake the boy.

He is determined to return to his previous resolution, to forget this morning as if nothing has happened.

His determination wavers however when he is close enough to see the young face. Potter is a handsome young man, there is no denying that. It is amazing how different he looks from his father and mother, as if a perfect mix of the two.

His jaw is more defined than James’, his cheekbones sharper than Lily’s. There is the constantly present shadow of stubble while his father had always been clean shaven and then there is the thick, black mane that still rebels against any form of taming. The warm smile that makes that face even more outstanding is away now, but Severus knows the moment he would open those green eyes, it will be there as it has been all weekend.

“Potter,” he calls out quietly leaning on the back of the couch. “Potter wake up. Breakfast is ready.”

Potter is not listening, he does not even flinch. How can someone sleep so soundly, Severus wonders. He usually wakes up by simple chirping of a bird. Someone calling his name like that would make him sit straight up with wand in hand. Maybe he is just more paranoid than Potter.

He goes around the couch and squats down near Potter’s head. Before he could utter the name again, a slip of paper catches his eyes on the ground.

It must have fallen out of Potter’s hand that is hanging off the sofa, he muses, reaching for it on impulse. Just before his fingers touch the paper he feels something; a jolt in the air, a shift in his magic and he comprehends that his actions are not fully his own: the paper is calling to him. It _wants_ to be seen.

It takes him a second to understand that he is watching a picture, that he is certain was taken three years ago. The small golden pin on his own chest reveals as much as he had never worn his Order of Merlin medal only on the evening it was awarded to him. Potter, the other person on the picture, is wearing the exact same decoration on his bottle green dress robes.

Severus remembers this moment, this exact moment the picture captured. He had just received the medal from Potter, the boy, because he was no more than an eighteen year old boy back then, who was about to shake his hand and thank him for what Severus had done during the war.

Severus _remembers_ this moment as if it was yesterday mostly because this was the first time he felt more for Potter than the ever burning hatred. When he saw the honest gratitude in those green eyes, when he heard the shakiness of his voice, when he felt the humble buzzing of his magic.  When he first saw the boy for who he was. Not a hero, not the son of James Potter, but a human who went through hell but held on, much like Severus.

Oh yes, Severus remembers the rush of desire he felt then, much like this morning, which he was almost unable to control for he had never felt anything even similar before. He remembers what he wanted to do then, what he still wants to do every time Potter is close to him.

Then, to his utter horror and surprise, he watches himself do just that in the picture. He cups Potter’s face with a single hand and leans forward and kisses Potter softly on the lips. The motion is so flawless, as if he had done it a million times and given it all happens on a magical picture he probably did indeed share more than a million kiss with Potter. At least on paper.

As he pulls back his face is not happy, nor sad, nor strict, nor frowning, not even disappointed for the lack of response from Potter. He knows the boy would never react, which is probably why his paper-counterpart did not even leave time for Potter to do so.

Severus expects himself to walk out of the picture, because in reality that is what he would do – although he would not even do this in the first place. Second time now in one single minute he is utterly astonished.

Namely because Potter launches forward on the photo and holding Severus’ face between his palms he kisses the man – rather wildly. Severus, the one on the picture, reacts instantly, kisses back, slides his hands through the thick tresses, pushes his tongue past complying lips. They ravish each other.

The real Severus falls back on his butt as he stares outraged at the image. This is _not_ what happened that night. He is rather certain. He would remember something like this. Would he not?

Not able to look away Severus watches his paper doppelganger kissing fervidly with Harry Potter until as if on heartbeat they both step back from each other. The burning desire is still there between them, equally ferocious, Severus himself can _feel_ the sensation, the longing wish to do that with the man not a foot away from him.

Then photo-Severus collects himself, runs his hand over his chest, straightening his black dress robes, and holds it out to Potter, who accepts. Yes, _this_ Severus remembers again. He was the one three years ago who prompted the handshake.

The grasp is fleeting and they nod to each other briefly on the thin, crumpled paper, before they let go. Severus can feel the tension between the two figures, much like he felt it back then. Then his counterpart cups Potter face and kisses him again. Flawlessly. Doing it for the million-and-first time.

By the time they reach the million-and-eleventh kiss, Severus knows every nook and wrinkle on the paper. The never ending, mysterious scene does not last more than ten seconds in reality and the longer he watches it the shorter it seems. Yet it never makes more sense than for the first time.

Where did Potter get this? How did this picture even come to existence? This is not what happened that evening, Severus is certain. But then how? Did Potter know its origin or is he just as befuddled by it as Severus? Why did he even have the picture with him in the first place?

So many questions, not a single answer.

He looks at Potter, the real one, lying in front of him and remembers why he even came here in the first place. The bacon must be crispy by now and he is lucky if the eggs are not burnt black.

“We need to talk,” he wants to demand but instead he utters softly, “Wake now, Potter.”

The young man stirs finally, tries to open his eyes, but he does not manage. His lips quiver, then part and he gasps. Finally, fear and lust stop deluding Severus’ mind and he recognises that there is something wrong. He lays a hand on Potter’s forehead and feels it burning hot.

“God damn it…” he groans not letting one more second go to waste. “You will hate me for this,” he says to the almost unconscious man then slithers one arm beneath his legs and another under his back.

Potter’s dead weight almost makes him fall forward as he lifts the young man and stands but once he is on his feet with his back straight he handles the body easily. He almost runs through the living room and skips up the round iron staircase.

The bathroom door is still open and so are Potter’s eyes.

“You have a fever,” he explains, hoping it gets through the deep haze he can see clouding the green eyes.

The eyes just close, as if relinquishing all manner of decision making on Severus' behalf. Severus places Potter gently in the copper bathtub and hesitates only for a moment. “Well you will for certain detest me for _this_ , but I promise it is in your best interest…” he mutters apologetically.

The choice is made way before he consciously reaches out to remove Potter’s shirt. He is way too worried to feel anything else at the moment which is a wonder on its own given what kind of thoughts have been in his mind all day.

Seconds later the boxers are gone too, but Severus upholds the decency to the best of his capability with looking away and denying to concentrate on how it feels when his fingers slide on naked skin.

The tub is filled with lukewarm water to cool the temperature of the burning body. He waves his wand and summons a small bouquet of dried yarrow. He adds the flowers to the water as well and stirs it away.

Potter rustles slowly, enjoying the cooling effect.

Severus grabs the sponge from the edge of the tub and sinks it in the water until it soaks up as much fluid as it can. He pours the herbal water over Potter’s chest, wets the long neck, the pink cheeks and tries to cool the sweating forehead as well. He repeats the motion many times, as much as he needs to.

By the time Potter’s eyes finally flutter open the lukewarm water is more towards cold then warm. Tired eyes take in Severus, trying hard to focus. Severus tries to help with placing Potter’s glasses on his nose.

With his eyes it seems, Potter’s mind clears too. He blinks more aware of his surrounding now. He looks down on himself, then watches the hand that still sponges his chest, then his eyes slowly move down towards his own groin – realizing for the first time that he is utterly naked.

He splashes ample amount of water on Severus as he cavorts around trying to cover his junk with his hands. Severus is watching him with only a roll of his eyes, the corner of his lips quirking up just slightly.

Outraged, Potter stares at Severus, who blinks innocently. It is not like he has done anything wrong, he tries to convince himself.

The indignation slowly changes as Potter looks around. First slowly, then more frantic, clearly looking for something. Severus has a hunch what the young man is searching on the ground.

Severus fishes the picture out of his pocket and holds it up. “Is this what you are looking for?” He inquires.

Potter looks anxious now. His gaze falls onto the water and does not look back up again. He does not have a wand nor his notebook, he could not even say a word even if he wanted to, which Severus assumes is not the case. Potter is silent, and this time it is because he does _not_ want to speak.

Severus brandishes his wand and a mug whizzes up the stairs. He flicks it again and a black box appears. He knows Potter’s eyes are on him now, but he does not look back – decency, he reminds himself because the young man _is_ naked after all, Severus _is_ gay, and he did just… his hand trembles as he recalls his morning here only a few steps to the right from where Potter is lying naked now.

Thinking does not help, he concludes when he has to try three times to warm the water in the mug. When he finally manages, he sprinkles elderflower in the boiling water and hands it to Potter, keeping his eyes away from anything that is in the bathtub.

“Drink this,” he orders, aiming for a strict voice, but what comes out is so caring it all but sickens him.

Potter notices too, the warm smile is back on his lips.

“Stay in there for about ten more minutes,” he instructs and before he turns around he places the picture on the edge of the tub.

**o.O.o**

They are ambling on the dusty road with the baskets on their arms which Harry would almost find funny, if he had any inclination to laugh.

But he does not want to laugh, crying is much more appealing at the moment but that he would never do in front of Snape. Or at least not just yet.

No, he is not in any pain. His fever thanks to the expert treatment has disappeared long ago. When he got out of the bathtub he felt only a bit wobbly and by the time he dressed and showed his face to Snape he was perfectly well. Breakfast awaited him, followed by a mug of hot Earl Grey which he gulped down anxiously. Would Snape bring up the picture, he mused terrified all morning. But it seemed, Snape did not care about that, or at least did not find it noteworthy.

Which is partly responsible for Harry’s not so merry mood. The other part of his misery has come from Snape’ utterly cool, almost indifferent attitude.

Even when they had a small argument whether they should go to the town fair or stay home so Harry could rest, it lacked the usual vigour. Harry had argued that Severus needs to present his dumplings because they are delicious and Severus just bowed his head lightly with a quiet, “As you wish,” and that was it.

 Is it because of the picture? Is Snape angry with him? But then Snape’s anger usually manifests as something scarier than quiet submission.

He kicks into a vagrant stone and heaves a sigh no one can hear. The stone rolls onto another road, broader but still not asphalt or even pebble, vertical to the one they are walking on. Just as they reach it, Snape stops without a word. Harry watches him, waiting for an explanation, but it does not come. Instead, within five minutes, Harry can hear the distant clapping of hoofs and squeaking of old wooden wheels.

He does not have to wait long, the old cart shows up soon, pulled by a huge horse, brown and white. Even its mostly white mane has a larger streak of maroon in it, that is gently swaying now in the breeze as it comes nearer and nearer.

“Hop on,” Marcus smiles down at them from the perch and slows the carriage just enough so they can jump on it.

There are two huge crates of red apples back there, Harry and Severus sits next to them, facing each other, though still not looking at one another.

Draping one arm around the apples and tossing one leg over the edge where now it dangles rhythmically, Harry shifts into a more comfortable position. The apples are tempting but he cannot ask Marcus whether he can steal one or not.

He does not realize Snape must be watching him until the man tosses an apple at him. Harry bites into it gratefully, juice trickling past the corner of his mouth.

He leans forward. **What happened to the mirror?** Harry writes in the dust on the wood between them. This time, there is no magic. He writes with his fingertips, then brushes the dirt that is stuck to his skin off on his jeans. He has to write upside down which takes a little bit more to finish.

Snape shrugs, “Who knows. Maybe a ghost.” His black eyes look past Harry, probably even past the horizon.

Harry knows he is not taken seriously, what he does not understand is the why. There is nothing he can do so he just writes again. **Anyway** **…** **I fixed it.**

Snape reads the sentence and looks up. His gaze is fixed on Harry for long minutes. Harry refuses to look away and he keeps staring too. Unfazed this time, because fixing a mirror cannot be such a horrible mistake.

Or maybe it is, given Snape’s relentless staring that begins to turn intimidating. Snape is watching _something_ on him. Harry has a weird feeling that he might have forgotten to put on clothes.

They drove past a pot hole and the bump shakes Harry up more than it should. His glance darts away from Snape and, as if he has just lost a game, he blushes and he cannot look back. Whatever this game is, he does not like it. It is too subtle for him.

He tries to concentrate on their short journey, he tries to notice his surroundings. At first he has to remind himself that there is more to this world than the dark man in front of him, afterwards however, the world itself calls out for him.

He hears the birds first, then the cows and dogs in the distance. Fall is not only present in their little valley, it reaches over the hills, disregards the fences and stretches all around. And yet, Harry feels the shy yellow, the burning red and never changing green trees as his only, like a gift to sooth his nerves.

Whatever they are, poplars, oaks, hornbeams, elms, or just goat willows and buckthorns on the side of the road, nothing escapes the changes Fall brings. Autumn is the season of change, much like Spring, which means life and renewal for many. Unfortunately, what Fall can offer is only cold, damp and dying.

Harry understands why people would not like this time of the year, though he has never been one of them. Since he was eleven, September always meant Hogwarts for him. It has been the season of change, yes, but the season of good change. After the war, after that blissful, warm summer, he had to face the colder month once again, now without help from Hogwarts or anyone else. He became an Auror, and once again, autumn meant something new: a new challenge, a new team, a new environment.

That was three years ago. What new would this Fall bring for him, he wonders, eyes slowly drifting away from the faded grass over to the side of the worn, wooden cart, then up on the man leaning against it.

He watches the face that used to haunt his dreams, bring him terror in the middle of the night. How many times did he dream of killing Snape during the war, before he found out the truth? Was it a hundred? And how many times did he watch himself kissing the same man on the picture? A million? Maybe more…

Whatever Snape is, it is confusing him. He is changing like the seasons, minute by minute showing a different face.

He is not the Summer, there is nothing warm there, nothing relaxing. He cannot be the Spring either. People say he has changed, but Harry knows better. The man is the same as he always been, only the life around him altered: it has become easier, lighter, bringing the same light on Snape as well. Snape is still cunning and calculating. The difference is, now he trades favours for recipes not lives.

Is he the cold, cruel Winter? The Death of Nature? The time of the year where everything is quiet covered by snow, or frozen to stillness by the eastern winds? Harry feels like smiling; if anything, Snape is the fire that burns against the coldness. He is the resistance, never calm, never quiet, full of dynamic, too afraid to stop.

Is he then the ever changing Fall? Not two days where he is the same? Once he is cold and cruel, bringing blustering winds, leaving the whole landscape rattled? Would he also be the one who brings days like this? When he fights with all his might to give some warmth where everyone expects only coldness? Bring beauty when people see death?

Dark eyes like black elder glint in the warm sunshine. Harry and Snape are looking at each other, unblinking, their gaze more heated than the past couple of days.

The face that used to haunt his nightmares is still with him in the darkness of the night. He is not killing Snape in his dreams anymore, he is kissing him. The lucid image of his naked body causes the heat that keeps Harry warm in Winter. The imaginary sensation of his cold touch cools him on a warm Summer day.

The dark stare is heavy but Harry cannot look away this time. Uncertain of what all of this means, he just chews on his apple, bit by bit consuming it just as that stare consumes his soul.


	6. Fair Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to wish all of you happy Valentine`s Day as I love you all dearly.. I do not know, how to express how much it means to me that you follow this, or any of my other stories, fave it, or leave a review. It keeps me alive, it makes me smile, it warms my heart. Just as I hope, this chapter will warm yours.
> 
> Thank you!

 

 

With another bump, the cart finally turns on solid road and the travel becomes smoother. The distinct noises of the fair are now more pronounced. Music, laughter, shouting are carried by the fresh air as they approach the town.

Not five more minutes and they are at the side of the main square, which seems to give place to the whole event. The crowd around the bandstand mostly consists of old people, the younger ones are in the park, setting up tents. Children are running around, enjoying their freedom. Some are playing football, others are just climbing trees or waiting in line at the go-carts.

Marcus leads them towards the edge of the park, beyond which only a maize field lays.

“ Harvest starts tomorrow, ” standing behind her booth, an elderly woman informs them just as they reach her.  “ Make sure you try the maze tonight, Severus. ”

She welcomes them with a warm smile and Harry has no doubt who she is.

“ Margie, ” Snape greats her, leaning in, pressing a soft kiss on her wrinkled face.  “ You know I care not for such games. Maybe Mr. Potter here, ” he waves Harry closer.

“ Do you like mazes, Mr. Potter? ” She inquires, holding out a hand.

Harry shakes it gently and smiles at the woman, nodding. After the handshake, he pulls out his notebook and the pen from his pocket. **Harry, please** , he scribbles down, shows it to her then adds, **I do, but only if I have company.**

“ Well, you see Harry, Severus and I, we have this little game going on year after year. The one who sells more goodies today will be the winner. The question is, would you be our prize? The winner goes to the maze with you, the looser gets to cook you and all of us dinner, ” she aims her next words to Severus though she is still looking straight to Harry ’ s eyes.  “ I do love Severus ’ pot pies. ”

Harry does not share the little secret that this year Margie might have just a little harder time to win. He is content with being the prize and nods enthusiastically to convey that. Mrs. Wiley beams at him, nods briskly too and returns behind her little stand.

“ Don ’ t I have a say in this? ” Snape asks pointlessly as everyone ignores him.

Marcus is the one, who claps him on the shoulder and says quietly,  “ Nope …” He takes out his camera from the booth and says goodbye, heading out towards the midst of the crowd.

The neighbouring tent is Snape ’ s and they spend a good hour packing out. By half past eleven, the little booth is on the verge of collapsing from the desserts, but Snape is optimistic to think, it will still not even be enough.

The other tents nearby display other kind of deliciousness as well, not all goes with the sweets. The marching crowd brings the scent of roasted sausages. People carry paper plates loaded with roasted beef, corn. Some have baked beans, some have fried potatoes, some eat freshly baked bread with their meal.

Most booths who offer main dishes, also have some juices or more often alcohol. Just across the little road Harry can see bottles of cold beers on the table, at other tents red and white wines line one side while cheese covers the other. Beer sloshes over the brim of the people ’ s cups as they stop to watch in awe as Margie brings forth yet another tray of her Mince pie, or Manchester tart. Someone comes asking Harry what he would suggest with the glass of Moscato, who points smiling at the dumpling then watches the customer walk away satisfied with their purchase.

Harry can see some children running past the slow flow of strangers, hands sticky with candy floss. A man, balding and short on even shorter legs chases a shaggy black dog who has stolen his sausage. People laugh, eat, drink. They are happy, which makes Harry smile as well.

Slowly, there is a line forming in front of their booth, everyone asking for the br û l é e or the dumpling or both. Soon Harry cannot be standing around idle, Snape needs all the help he can get. After noon, it seems, all people want are the desserts now. Most of the prized races start around one or two, and it seems everyone wants to get full before the potato sack race or obstacle course party.

Kids sneak forward between adults, and if Snape catches them, they are sent back to the end of the line. They learn quickly that Harry is the one they need to ask for their treats as he servers them with a wink. Snape is not pleased, but he leaves Harry to do whatever he wants. As long as they sell the sweets, who cares who is the one buying  – must be his philosophy.

By two o ’ clock, when the crowd finally dissipates and the rush dies away, it is fairly certain who would be the winner. But instead of gloating, Snape leaves the booth to Harry and goes away with Marcus. Harry finally has some chance to talk with Margie, who turns out to be almost as competitive as Ginny Weasley, and about as warm-hearted as her mother, Molly. When asked, Harry confesses the secret of their success this year, but Margie is not offended. She laughs, and admits where her recipe comes from: not family, enemy. When she was young, she won it in a similar game. Harry gives his written promise never to tell Snape, and in return Margie promises the same.

Snape and Marcus return with many plates full of roasted meat, four different sides, some gravy, cranberry jam, and many glasses of cold, dark ale. As they eat, Harry is mostly quiet, listening to the cheerful conversation, the banter between Snape and Marcus, the teasing between husband and wife. He only struggles against his muteness when Snape tells over-exaggerated lies about his childhood at Hogwarts. He knows he is being teased but he cannot help it, he is writing **NOT TRUE** with bold, large letters on his notebook, showing it to anyone who is willing to look.

“ True, ” Snape shakes his head dramatically.  “ Every word is true. ” His smirk tells Harry however that not a single insult is meant seriously.  “ Have I ever told you that he was barely twelve when he decided the Hogwarts Express was a boring way to arrive to school, so he stole a flying car? ”

Again, Harry holds up the notebook, his pen lying flat on it, yet the ink seeps out and forms, **NOT WHAT HAPPENED!** To silence the man, he clasps his hand across those lips and they stare at each other in a silent battle.

The shutter clicks before Harry could move out of the frame or even realize what is happening. For a passing second, he wonders if he will be kissing Snape on this photo as well.

Severus and Harry both lose the battle as Margie and Marcus steal one customer away. She jumps up and welcomes the young lad craving something sweet.

Marcus is eyeing them, putting down his camera and packing away the used plates, giving the left over meals to strays that wander around. Snape notices the glance and frowns, his good mood leaving with the young guy who walks away with Margie ’ s Mince Pie.

“ What? ” he all but barks at Wiley.

“ Oh nothing, nothing, ” Marcus waves with a hand and the trash disappears, but no one seems to notice besides Harry.  “ How is Mr. Potter ’ s remedy coming along? ” He asks suddenly.

“ Good, ” comes the short answer.

“ Indeed? ” Marcus wonders.  “ Because all I see is that Potter is still mute, yet you have two empty apple trees, a leafless front yard, and a handy assistant now at the fair. If I didn ’ t know you better, I would say, you are enjoying our Hero ’ s suffering more than you should. ”

Snape pushes himself away from the table, not really angry, only slightly irritated.  “ And just what are you trying to say, Marcus? ”

Riling him up must have been his aim, because Marcus seems pleased as he takes his camera in hand again. He removes the lens cap and looks through the lenses, seemingly testing them if they still work.

“ What I am trying to say, is that you actually enjoy having Potter here. He is a good help  – that could be one of the reasons. Who knows about the others …” He lowers the camera and Harry can see the usual sly glint in his blue eyes.

He expects Snape to be furious, but the man only raises his eyebrows.  “ Outrageous, ” he comments before a new customer steals him away.

Another hour passes and they sell out. All their desserts are gone, the last one eaten by Margie herself. The fancy is written on her face as she tries a bite of the dumpling. When she voices her disappointment that there is none left from the br û l é e, Snape assures her that there is some home just for her.

Severus packs away everything, no people pay attention to the empty booth, so it goes easier with a bit of a magic. When done with his own booth, Snape helps out Margie where he can.

“ Go, ” he tells Harry, who seems to be in the way, wherever he is. Snape nods towards the rest of fair.  “ We will be done here shortly. I saw some caramel apples that way, ” he adds as an afterthought.

“ Come, Harry, ” Marcus waves.  “ Let ’ s look around. ”

Harry accepts the invitation and holding on to his ale, follows Marcus through the crowd. The old man stops now and then, when he sees something worth capturing. Sometimes only a muddy dog interests him, drinking from the water pooling in a hole, sometimes, a butterfly painted on a child ’ s face catches his artistic eyes.

Harry has a hard time writing with holding the bottle too, but he manages, even if his handwriting turns out more unreadable than usual.

** Are they going to move? **

“ Not all, ” Marcus answers, letting the heavy camera fall onto his narrow chest.  “ Most is for the local newspaper. The ones that are for my own pleasure will though. Would you like to try it? ”

Harry hesitates, never has operated a camera before, but Marcus does not accept no for an answer. He hands Harry the machine then watches him loop the strap around his neck.

“ You look in there, and you press that, when you see something you fancy, okay? There should be still couple of spots left for yours. ”

Harry nods, as he examines the camera. Silver and black leather covers the sensitive case. The brand is something even he recognizes. The camera is an older type, he has seen many tourists using bigger and probably better machines of the same company.

He busies himself with his new toy  – which in all honesty looks rather ancient  – so much that he misses the scrutinizing gaze on his own person.

“ Yes, I know it ’ s old, ” Marcus sighs, reading Harry ’ s mind.  “ As you might know, cameras are not magic. This one too, is absolute regular, I purchased it in a Muggle shop in London many years ago. Digital cameras, the ones Muggles use nowadays do not use films, you see. Now the trick to making moving pictures cannot be in the camera, not even in the film. It has to be the solution you dip the film in. That ’ s how me and Severus met. A good photography potion, you see Harry, worth a lot. ”

Harry knows that Colin Creevey told him something about this ages ago, back in Hogwarts, but he cannot recall a word now.

** How does it work? **

“ Well, basically, you put the film in the solution, ” laughs the old man.  “ But of course, it is much like Potions. Very delicate, very time-dependent. The pictures can be affected by the temperature, the quality of the solutions, the length of the rinsing process. And in the meanwhile, one millisecond of light can destroy days of work. Not to mention the dust. ”

Harry stops and tries to figure out how to phrase his question.

** Why would people in pictures behave differently then what actually happened? **

“ One thing could determine that, ” Marcus explains, holding up his pointing finger. He seems to enjoy talking about his passion.  “ The quality of the developing solution, or course. The better the quality, the more individualistic the portrayed subject is. Let ’ s say you take a picture of that young man, ” Wiley motions towards one of the men, who is participating in the potato sack race.  “ An average solution with an average soaking time would give you the general photo you see in the Daily Prophet. Three-five seconds long, man jumping around in the sack, picture looping back to its beginning. The Prophet wouldn ’ t want its subjects doing more on the picture than necessary. Doing the same in Severus' solution for longer time might give you the man finishing the race first then waving out towards you. Or maybe sending you to hell for taking the picture without his consent. That ’ s the beauty of wizarding photography. You never know how it ends; it all depends on whom or what you photograph. ”

Harry watches Marcus, then looks at the camera suddenly remembering something.

** Every time I had a photo taken with Lockhart, my old teacher, my image edged out of the picture because I hated him,  ** he writes in the notebook.

“ Yes, that could easily happen, ” Marcus agrees.

** So it depends on me if I leave a picture or do something else on it? **

“ It seems to me you have a direct question about one certain picture. It would be easier to explain if I could see it. ”

Harry just snorts at the sly offer, before he pens down, **You won't see it.**

“ So there _is_ a picture, ” Marcus smirks satisfied.  “ But alright. You know how some people say photography steals your soul? It doesn ’ t steal it, it records it. Taking a picture of a living, conscious being is hard. You managed to pull away from your old teacher because your very soul wanted that. ”

** And what about interaction? Between two people, for example. **

“ As I said, what the soul wants, the camera records, ” Marcus repeats.

They keep walking. The young man in the sack finishes the race second. He looks disappointed. Harry on the other hand could sing if he had his voice back.

** So if people do unexpected things on pictures that ** ** ’ ** ** s because they would rather do that than what actually happened? **

“ Can be, yes, ” Marcus agrees.  “ Other times though, if the solution is not good, the picture can become a mess. It ’ s a form of art nowadays, actually. Leaving the photos in bad solution for days. You never know what you get. Maybe nothing happens, maybe you get fruits chasing each other, a dog drawing, a cat playing cards with a mouse. Crazy things can result in using expired potions, as we all know. ”

Harry ’ s hopes plummet from the blue skies to the muddy ground right away. So bad solution created that picture three years ago. No mystery, no souls, just an expired potion.

Sighing, he throws out his empty beer cup and puts his notebook away. He is not in the mood for further conversation.

Marcus does not seem to notice that or more likely, he simply just ignores it.  “ So tell me, do you enjoy it here, Mr. Potter? Far from the madding crowd? ”

Harry looks up, raises an eyebrow at the old man then points at the masses around them.

The sly glint is back and Wiley smirks.  “ Well then, I rephrase. Do you enjoy living here _with Severus_? ”

Harry hides his face behind the camera quickly, avoiding the answer. Through the lenses he sees a little girl holding on to her even smaller brother. They are sharing candyfloss, its pinkness matching the girls dress.

Marcus is patient but the time comes when even Harry cannot pretend any longer that he did not hear the question. He shrugs, too scared to admit the truth.

Wiley laughs.  “ I take that as a yes. ”

Harry snaps his gaze at him, missing the young teen who finally tosses a beanbag through a small cut out monster. Her friends cheer her loudly as she receives a small plush as a token of her victory.

The old man only smirks smugly at him.  “ He is so adamant to convince me that he hates you, yet all I see … well, let ’ s just say, it is definitely not hatred. ”

They move along, letting a passing group draw them towards the obstacle course, where teams of ten have already been lined up to start the race. They arrived just in time, a man around the middle of his thirties is holding a gun, about to signal the start. Just in time, Harry pushes the button and catches the first racers as they skip through a ladder ’ s rungs. He thinks this might be a rather good picture.

“ You ’ re not denying it, ” it is a statement, and Harry does not want to lie, so he remains mute once again.

When the silence stretches, Marcus speaks again.  “ Don ’ t hurt him …”

The camera almost falls through his fingers, Harry flinches so badly. He lets it fall and grabs his notebook.

** Me? ME hurting HIM? **

“ You didn ’ t seen him when he moved here, Potter. You haven ’ t seen him in years. I did, ” Marcus says coldly.  “ The face he shows you now … it took us years to make him let go of the past. You don ’ t know the man who came here, you know the one who let you stay with him. ”

Harry snarls and grabs Marcus, pulling him behind tents where no one moves around. He casts a non-verbal Muffliato, then twisting his wand, he writes faster than light in the air. It is easier and much quicker than using the notebook, not to mention more readable too.

“ _ You have no idea, NO IDEA, of who he was, what he did before the war, and you will never get it out of me either. He is not your ticket back to the Prophet! _ ” He cannot yell but the contorted expression on his face tells Marcus how he feels at the moment.

“ That is not what I ’ m talking about, Potter. I don ’ t want a story. I don ’ t care what he did. I know I owe him a lot, but not for reasons I cannot know, reasons the Minister decided to keep a secret. ”

“ _ It wasn _ _ ’ _ _ t the Minister, _ ” the words flow out from Harry ’ s wand.  “ _ It was me. I _ _ ’ _ _ m the reason, why you cannot know, why you will never know what happened unless HE tells you. _ ”

“ I don ’ t care, ” Marcus brushes it away with a wave of his hand. Harry is surprised that he misread the lines as another attempt to reveal their past with Snape.  “ My point is, the Wizarding World gave us a broken man, Mr. Potter, and we took it upon ourselves to nurture him back to health. And I don ’ t mean me and Margie. I mean these people, ” Marcus announces, pointing behind his back where the crowd flows.  “ I am angry at you, Potter, ” he adds quietly now, with less heat.  “ You might be the biggest hero of the century, but I am still angry. How could you have left him behind? ”

“ _ Leave him behind? _ ” Glow Harry ’ s letters white now with sheer anger. Their radiate warmth like flames, only even hotter.  “ _ He disappeared on ME! He got his medal and the next day took off. No one knew where he was! _ ”

“ Until _you_ needed help, ” Marcus points it out calmly.  “ Interestingly, the moment Harry Potter needs something Severus is summoned again. Because of you. He talks about leaving, you know. He says he would return to London to find out who did this to you. ”

Surprised, Harry shakes his head.  “ _ I never asked him to. I wouldn _ _ ’ _ _ t. I wouldn _ _ ’ _ _ t ask him to leave this place. _ ”

Marcus sighs, rolling his ice blue eyes. He twists his beard thinking how much more to say.  “ You don ’ t understand still. You _are_ a dunderhead, ” his words carry no malice.  “ I don ’ t care if he leaves. If he wants to move to London and open an Apothecary on Diagon Alley, so be it  – I will be his first customer. What I don ’ t want is that he follows _you_ back to London where you return to your friends, your family, and leave him be, as people always did to him. I don ’ t want him to be alone, Potter. I don ’ t want him to be the bitter, broken man who came here. ”

Marcus walks to a box and sits on it, looking tired as if arguing has left him powerless.  “ I ’ m grateful for Severus, Potter, but not just for what he did or didn ’ t do during the war. I ’ m grateful for him because he came over and watered my garden when Marge had a heart attack last summer and I was with her in the hospital. I would have lost most of the crops without him. I ’ m grateful because he keeps us company in the Winter cold, because he brings wood when I can't cut more. I love that boy like my own son. ”

Harry steps closer and he is on the verge of saying something he has not thought through. The idea alone scares him more than a Dementor. At least you can defend yourself from those monsters, but there is no spell to protect you from falling in love with the wrong man.

Wiley looks up at Harry, blue eyes worn but determined.  “ He will make his own choices, and I would respect them, but I beg you, do not take him unless you can give him what he already has here. ”

“ What? ” Harry mouths wordlessly.

“ A family, ” says Marcus with a sigh.

** o.O.o **

The mood lightens as they leave the hidden nook behind the tents. Harry hides his wand in his coat sleeves again and pulls out the notebook.

** Thank you for taking care of him ** , he jots down as they join the mass.

“ He is a really good friend, ” Marcus says with a smile.  “ I ’ m sorry if I came across impolite or … demanding. ”

** You came across worried  ** ** – ** ** and that ** ** ’ ** ** s okay. I ** ** ’ ** ** m glad he finally has someone like that. **

“ So Dumbledore didn ’ t … he mentioned him a couple of times too … I thought they were close, ” Marcus remarks trying to sound indifferent.

Harry smirks as he writes his reply. **That was different. And don** ** ’ ** ** t think I don ** ** ’ ** ** t know what you ** ** ’ ** ** re doing, you lowdown Slytherin. **

Reading the short message Marcus laughs heartily.  “ One can always try, ” he chuckles.

“ Where the hell have you two been? ” Snape shows up out of the blue. Harry looks up and is surprised to see that the man is carrying two caramel apples. He looks different somehow holding up the treats, reaching one towards Harry, biting into the other. He looks like a proper Muggle in his slim, black jacket, and black trousers, wearing black boots which are slightly muddy. He looks completely average, yet for Harry somehow special. Maybe it is the content expression, the calm exterior, or the currently domestic view of his overall person. Harry bites his notebook quickly between his lips and grabs the camera.

He pushes down the button and the shutter clicks loudly. Surprisingly, Snape is not in the least bothered by what he has just done. He is still holding the apple with only a slightly raised eyebrow signalling he indeed noticed that Harry just stole a piece of his soul.

Snape hands the caramel apple to Harry once the camera is back hanging on his chest, and the notebook tucked away in his back pocket, while he pulls the other apple further away from Marcus when the old man reaches out too.

“ Oi, don ’ t I get one too? ” he grunts, insulted.

“ I tried, ” Snape claims.  “ Your wife said no. ”

“ Damn my wife, give me one, ” Marcus snaps, trying to snatch Snape ’ s who ditches the effort.

“ You have to watch your sugar intake, ” Snape reminds him.

“ I told Margie a million times; if I get diabetes, I just go to a Healer, they cure me in a heartbeat … I ’ m not a Muggle like she is. I don ’ t have to inject stuff into my veins. ”

“ And we told you more than a million times that if, Merlin forbid, you have a heart attack, you might not go anywhere just the cemetery. Now, I did see some nice looking carrots on my way. They even give dipping for them, ” informs him Snape smugly.  “ Why not try that? ”

“ Why not go to hell? ” Marcus offers summoning his pipe. Where he got his wand, Harry misses but by the time he notices the tattered looking rod, it disappears again.  “ Oh you menace, ” puffs old Wiley,  “ you and Margie too. What ’ s life worth if you take away all the pleasure, huh? ” He turns to Harry as he goes on with the rant.  “ They don ’ t even let me smoke now, can you believe that, Harry? Once a day, that ’ s the limit. Seventy-eight years and I tell you, never have I been told when I can smoke my pipe, not even in the army. ”

He is about to light it, when Harry snaps his fingers. The pipe disappears. Marcus watches the empty air crossed-eyed.  “ You too, Potter?! ” He cries betrayed.

Harry writes quickly and hands the notebook straight to Marcus, not letting Snape see what he wishes to communicate.

Seeing Harry ’ s satisfied grin, Marcus looks like he wants to tear the page and throw it away unread, but he seems to change his mind the last minute.

** We did just mention worrying about loved ones, ** says the notebook.

“ Touch é , ” Marcus admits.  “ Glad you got my point, Potter, ” he huffs though, grudgingly.

“ Whatever you two started while I wasn ’ t around, I would prefer if it stopped, ” declares Snape.

“ Good thing then that I don ’ t give a damn about your preferences. ” Marcus snickers.  “ Now, if you don ’ t mind, my carrots are waiting. ”

Harry gives him back his camera and they wave goodbye to each other. Marcus gives him one last glance that reminds Harry of their previous conversation, yet he chooses to forget that for now. Whatever Marcus thinks is between the two of them, it is not there, maybe only a faint impression, a wistful hope, or maybe even less, just a lucid fantasy in the middle of the cold night.

They walk among the crowd and no matter how average they look, Snape somehow stands out from the mass. He is nothing remarkable at the moment, his billowing cloak is missing, and so is his usual cold demeanour. He is eating the caramel apple, his black eyes resting on their surroundings, watching nothing in particular just seeing the continuously changing faces, the different games, all the colours of the fair.

Yet people look at him, look at _them_ as they pass by sensing something that is simply different.

The black jeans and jacket cannot hide the vibrating magic that sizzles between them right now. Their accidentally touching bare hands ignite a spark that is though invisible to the eyes many can feel as they move around them. A certain warmness, a wild tremor in the air - and people look up at the average, dark man with his long black hair and wonder, who he might be.

Harry watches the man too, his eyes stuck to the familiar features that are so relaxed now. Their hands brush again and he feels the tiny flash of magic between them. He wants to conquer it; he knows the way how. His hand itches to hold the other ’ s, but he knows he cannot.

He forces himself to look away and he turns immediately towards the other side. He stops, mesmerized.

The maize field lies endless ahead of him, inside of which a maze is hidden. A sign shows the entrance, nothing more than a wooden mark at the edge of the rows of maize. He hears voices drifting on the back of the lively leaves to him from far away. He cannot distinguish the words, yet he feels they are calling to him.

He steps forward hesitantly.

The Sun will be setting soon and in darkness they will not have a chance of finding their way out without magic. And yet, something compels him to step through that threshold of muddy ground and walk into the labyrinth of green leaves and yellow corn.

The maize towers over him like a wall, he feels insignificant once inside and though this is nothing magical, his surrounding is suddenly muted. The crowd is far away, he cannot hear the barking strays or laughing children.

There is only that strange whisper, relentless and calling.

Candied apple gone, the stick in his hand falls to the ground as a hand on his waist guides him deeper, towards that noise, that distinctive chattering that Harry is certain to be of magical origin. He barely sees the man who is next to him, he does not hear their steps on the soft ground, he is only aware of the gentle rustling of the leaves around them and the timid touch on his back.

They venture deeper and deeper. Not a soul comes across them, no children run through their path to find their ways back to their parents. In fact, there is nothing around them anymore, not even the distant noises of the crowd far away.

He is so focused on the beckoning sounds that he realizes only slightly belatedly that the hand disappeared from his waist. He turns around frantic but Snape is not there anymore. When did they lose each other?

Harry listens avidly for all and any noise in the maze but hears nothing, not even that strange chatter from before. As the Sun sets bringing the green cornfield into an orange glow, it dawns on him: he is completely alone.

“ Snape! ” Harry calls out the man ’ s name, but of course not a sound comes out of his mouth. He is silent just as the world around him. How deep is he into this endless field? Which way did he come from? Where is the exit? Where is Snape?

His heartbeat ’ s frantic rhythm makes him realize he is scared like a child who lost his way in the Forbidden Forest. He tries to tell himself, he is no child anymore, he is not lost, he has his wand. He could apparate, he thinks to calm himself, yet he feels numb and knows even if he tried he would not succeed. There is something in the air, cold and frightening that holds him back and he feels powerless.

He breaks into panicked running. He screams Snape ’ s name over and over again, even though he comprehends how useless it is. He is mute and he will not be heard, no matter how hard he tries. He panics even more when he imagines that maybe he will never be heard at least not by Snape. The possibility that he regains his ability to speak, yet there will be some things he will never be able to tell Snape terrifies him.

He dashes past stems, almost breaking them in his haste but he does not care. He runs and runs only faster towards one direction hoping it will be the correct one.

The Sun threatens to slip behind the horizon, yet Harry is still far from his goal, if anything he is even further away. He keeps shouting, he can feel the straining in his throat, he wants to speak, he knows he can, now, when it is most needed, he will be able to.

“ SNAPE! ” Not stopping, he cries with all his power, however his best effort is still pointless. He is mute and Snape will never hear him.

He gives up as the Sun hides and dimness descends on the field and the whole world. The narrow road is far from him, whoever knows how far Snape is. He is alone and lost and for some unknowable reason, more frightened about it than he should be. He knows this and yet, he cannot calm his franticly beating heart.

He hears the rustling and turns around hoping to see his older professor, but instead an even more surprising sight lies ahead of him.

The fawn from last night is standing in front of him. He can tell it is her, he can sense the gentle, innocent magic around her as she moves gracefully between two corn stems. She bleats, her voice sharp but childish and it sounds taunting. It is almost as if she is laughing at Harry for losing his way.

“ Then help me, ” Harry says and though he still does not have his voice back, he knows the animal understands him.

She flutters her large ears and stomps with her narrow front leg.

Harry adds,  “ Please, ” and she seems more willing to help suddenly. She slowly turns around and looks back, before she takes a couple of steps forwards.

“ Follow me, ” says the wind, or at least that is what Harry hears out from the rustling of the leaves.

Then the small fawn jumps into running and Harry needs to collect all his remaining strength to be able to follow her. She is fast, dashing like lightning on the sky. Harry nails his eyes on the white dots on her back and hopes he can keep up with her. He doubts a miracle like this would happen again if he lost her.

They run together for a while and Harry feels himself weaken. His legs are hurting, his lungs are on fire from the cold evening air. He cannot see the little deer; he only follows the moving leaves now. When even that trace fades, he stops desperately.

“ Where did you go? ” he cries but this time, no answering bleating comes from anywhere.

He turns around, his eyes searching the green leaves for any sign.

He turns and turns until he is all but dizzy.

Then, just as he is about to give up, he hears something behind him. It is only a gentle noise shifting in the leaves, but it is different. He does not have to turn around however. Hands descend on his hips and Harry knows right away, who is standing inches behind him. The fingertips dig into his skin, but the hold itself in not tight enough to keep him from turning around. Therefore, he does so, facing Snape.

Somewhere deep in a little corner of his mind, he realizes they arrived to the path they both had to find. They are standing right in the middle of it. Only inches apart.

Snape has a soft smile on his lips, barely more than a twitch. He looks down on Harry as he asks,  “ Missed me? ”

The panic, the fear leaves Harry instantly as if it has never even been there. He takes a deep breath.

They both move together. Heads tilted, eyes closed, they lean is. Their first kiss is so natural as if it had been them who have been kissing on that picture not their images. Demanding lips pressed against each other, they hold on, grasping into the other to endure the immense sensation that takes over them.

Snape grunts needy and bites Harry ’ s lower lip, who in return opens his mouth and lets the overflowing feeling of belonging fill him up from the bottom of his heart. He has wanted this for so long, he needs it like air; he craves it.

He buries his hand in the soft black tresses and kisses Snape; kisses him as deeply as he can, his ardent moans lost, but his actions there to prove he indeed enjoys every minute of what they are finally doing.

They pull apart for a moment, inhale the fresh air, the cold ground, the other ’ s scent and they are already back, unwilling to be separated from each other because of such worldly needs as breathing. They stagger as they try to come closer, but they are pressed together already, there is nowhere to move.

Harry can feel the desperate want in Snape as his fingers dig into his flesh and pull him closer by his waist. He can feel the loving tenderness as his face is held on a trembling palm.

Yes, Harry thinks to himself somewhere deep, yes, he did miss this man, missed him greatly every waking moment in the last three years and missed him even more every morning when he woke from a dream where he could see him, touch him.

He kisses again, remembering those cold nights, he kisses and does not let go. His tongue dances with the other ’ s hot flesh, his hand grips tighter into the black hair.

He is lost now, more than ever. But at least he is not alone anymore.


	7. Cold Eastern Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not forget about you guys, I swear. I still love you all. Please keep up the amazing feedback, it means the world to me!

****The autumn night is chilly and so is the air between them. They do not speak, at least Severus is not willing to utter a word, nor is he even willing to look Potter in the eyes. Whatever happened in that maze was long forgotten by now. The magic of that labyrinth has been left behind, the memory of that kiss nothing more than a pleasant tingling on his lips. The sweet taste of caramel and apples on Potter’s tongue is just a faint flavour he will once try to recreate, though he knows already it will be only a pale copy, a faded, lingering desire.

What they had there, they will never experience again. Potter has been collected and reserved ever since they found their way out of the maze. Severus has reacted the same. Their trip back home has been quiet and cool just like the evening around them.

Severus tries to tell himself, they have more important work to conduct first, yet he does not believe himself. And still he focuses on the task ahead and ignores Potter who is making tea next to him. He reminds himself just how much depends on this night and berates his mind for steering him off the road. If they do not succeed tonight, Potter will not survive to see the end of the month. Maybe a week or two he still has, but after that the dark curse will take over his body and end his life.

Severus’ hands clench by the thought of that. He cannot allow that to happen. He did not sacrifice everything just to lose Potter now to something like this. And yet, as he looks out of the darkness through the kitchen window, he cannot help but listen to whispers of the doubts in his head.

Will they be able to convince the nymphs to help them? Or should he come up with a different plan, just in case? What if the animals will never even show up? After all, they do not have any guarantee only Potter’s optimism.

And what if they do? What if they succeed with their plan and acquire that lock of hair? The antidote will be ready for consumption the moment the hair is added and it will take a couple of minutes for it to take effect. What after that? Would Potter say goodbye and leave? Would he stay the night? Does Severus want him to stay?

Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices the two cups full of steaming water, the Earl Grey leaves steeping in them, the unique scent of bergamot wafting through the air. He only sees Potter’s clenched hands resting on the countertop, as if he would be deciding which cup to reach for.

A sudden, keen longing fills Severus’ heart and with that the answer is clear as the star filled sky outside. Of course he wants Potter to stay, he would trap the young man here forever if he could. The longing he feels is so strong for a moment, his legs threaten to give up on him and collapse. He leans on the counter too, mirroring Potter’s stance. His hands fisted, he takes a deep breath to calm his mind and rid himself of the horrible ache that echoes in every cell of his body.

He cannot stand the feeling of Potter’s presence so close. He longs to see that handsome face, that warm smile, those green eyes. He resists and for a couple of seconds he is almost proud of himself, then the pain becomes unbearable.

He turns his head to the other direction and steps away. He wants to run and hide from this unexplainable need that makes him so weak, so vulnerable.

The moment his hand is caught in a hesitant grip, he turns back. He is not thinking anymore. He barely even sees the determined look on Potter’s face before he is tasting those sweet lips again.

He presses Potter into the countertop, he knows he must be hurting him but he can only press firmer and try to get closer to the boy, who clings to him, whose fingers are dashing into his scalp, whose palm is shifting on Severus’ side.

They ravish each other like their counterparts on the picture. There is nothing gentle in how Severus handles the young body, nor in Potter’s fervent retaliations. Severus grunts, _growls_ almost when Potter bites his lip all but drawing blood. Yet he cannot be angry. He is only even more devoted to taste Potter.

He cannot help the urging need that makes him bite and suck on the nearest flesh he can feel. He leaves his mark on Potter’s neck, he is fully aware of why he is doing it, and only after Potter’s skin is raw red, does he return to kissing the young man.

He is not surprised that all his sensations are heightened, yet it does catch him unawares that as he buries his hand in unkempt raven hair, he feels the soft tresses almost one by one caress his skin. That he can sense the small calluses on Potter’s palm as his hand moves on the back of his neck. That he can feel, no matter how hard Potter tries to hide it behind raw passion that the young man indeed trembles weakly in his arms.

It makes him smile; not that Potter is weak, it is the fact that _he_ made Potter weak. That his kisses on the soft skin, his touch on narrow waist, his grip on black hair – _his_ actions can make Harry Potter tremble with need.

He is smiling as he leans slightly back. Green eyes open, wide and confused as if Potter has not really comprehended just yet what has transpired between them. Breathless, Potter licks his lips and instinctively, Severus leans there and licks that full lower lip too, catches Potter’s tongue and slowly draws it into his own mouth, begging for an intimate dance.

Potter shudders then complies, following Severus, who then leans away again, still smiling. He knows he is teasing Potter, and if the roles were reversed, in the current situation he would hate any kind of teasing. But Potter does not seem like he has anything against that Severus is toying with him. He looks up and green eyes meet black. There is confusion for a moment in that penetrating gaze, but as soon as Potter realizes he has not done anything wrong, on the contrary in fact, he looks away shyly.

Severus knows it is nothing more than pretence. There is nothing shy in Potter as he presses his lower body to Severus’, as he bites his lower lip a moment before his green eyes return to Severus. He knows exactly how tempting he is with his messy hair, his bright eyes, his wet, red lips.

Moreover, soon he is smiling up at Severus, not shyly anymore, but flagrant, almost wicked as he bites his lip again, now more seductive. That is as long as Severus can hold back, and he is kissing the cheeky brat once more.

The kitchen around them cracks with electricity, like the air before a summer thunderstorm. Their wild magic makes his skin prickle. Goosebumps cover his bare skin as Potter’s hand sneaks beneath his shirt. Every gentle stroke on his bare back makes him moan and momentarily break their fervid kisses. Severus can feel Potter’s lips pull into a smug smile, and he knows, it is all on purpose.

What he does not know is that his moans are the very thing that make Potter this playful – he only realizes it when a firm hand grips into his buttock, and a deep urging moan breaks up his throat. Potter loses it then and the youth body shows how strong it is.

The Gryffindor bursts forth, all untamed strength, wild magic, raw and energetic and eager. Potter turns them around, he is in full control as he presses a leg between Severus’ thighs and bites down hungrily on his former professor’s long neck when he feels what Severus has been so keen to hide until now.

Every inch in Severus’ body burns as that thigh shifts roughly against his groin, which is why the cold rush of energy makes such a huge impact on his system. He pulls away, not liking the hostility in the air, the cool aggression, the threatening vibration.

“You feel that…?” he asks breathless as he slowly raises his eyes to look at Potter.

The words appear between them even if Potter is not holding his wand to cast them. It would impress Severus greatly, were he not distracted by the keen pressure on his hard cock and that sly smirk on Potter’s lips.

_Oh yeah, I definitely feel something_ , say the burning red letters in the air and Potter nudges his leg firmly against Severus’ crotch to make sure it is perfectly clear what he insinuates.

Severus is about to disregard the distraction, accepting it as nothing more than just a gust of cold wind that sneaked in beneath the door, but then he hears the crack of thunder from outside.

The weather has changed dramatically, and were he less immersed in Potter’s body, he would have noticed. The dark, star filled sky vanished as black clouds has filled it up. Rain is pouring down, heavy and noisy. The wind is wild, loud and uncaring as to what it tears out of the ground. It takes the yellow and red leaves, rips them off branches and plays with them according to its own mercy.

_That does not seem natural_ _…_ shine Potter’s words in the window.

“Shall we investigate?” Severus asks with a deep sigh.

Potter nods, also resigned.

Before he can leave however, Severus pulls him in for one last kiss. “Do not think for even a moment that we are done here,” he promises.

Potter grins at him as they both grab their jackets before heading out.

**o.O.o**

Harry pulls his jacket tighter around himself. The Indian Summer is nowhere now that the cold rain pours down on them. It does not just simply not feel natural, Harry is sure whatever happened to the warm weather has been, in fact, magical. But what, or rather who has such power over nature that they can cause such dramatic change in less than fifteen minutes, remains a mystery.

He follows Snape towards the lake, his attention on the dark sky. Thunderstorms are not really common this time of the year, yet he watches a lightning strike in a tree just a couple hundred yards from them.

The power of the storm is frightening, but even more so is the fact that they do not know where it has come from.

The trees bow under the will of the wind and they dance franticly against their resolve. The ice cold gust of air is relentless and does not know mercy. Not just trees but even the water bends to its strong willed command, and lets itself be whipped up into high waves sending the frogs and the unlucky duck family to find shelter in the old boat. They croak and quack frightened, the little ones pulling closer to find safety.

Suddenly, another lighting strikes and this time it is even closer. It brings light to the edge of the forest just as a beautiful stag storms out of the woods chased by two relentless killers in the forms of wolves.

He jumps over the little rivulet that feeds the lake, his moves carry elegance and power through his lean, muscled body. The wolves gallop after him into the water uncaring, their huge paws splashing water, their growls loud as thunder.

The stag touches the ground smoothly, as if wet rocks would not bother him in the slightest. His eyes are on Harry and Severus, who are on the verge of pulling their wands out in order to send helping charms to hinder the ferocious animals.

They realize the danger only slightly belated. The huge stag is not running towards them in hope of help. He is charging, pushing more power into each step and then bows his head, his antlers ready to pierce through soft skin.

Snape is the one who casts the spell and in the last seconds a silver, shimmering wall is erected between them and the animals. The stag is barely able to stop, it reels angrily, snorting through his nostrils. The wolves attack the barrier, try to slash it, bite it but it holds, glimmering more strongly. When they realize they cannot get through they start roaming around it, baring their teeth at the humans.

The stag is calmer though his dark brown eyes reflect the storm around them. He paws the grassless ground, prancing. He is almost as tall as a horse, his majestic antlers make him way more frightening. He is royalty, Harry can tell just by one look at the noble animal.

Harry touches the protective wall gently with the tip of his wand and it vaporizes, as if it has never been there. The wolves launch forward, ready to sink their teeth in humans but the stag bends his huge head and tosses them aside with his antlers.

The wolves whine as they stagger onto their feet and Harry keeps an eye on them, but they do not look like they want to return any closer. Harry looks back at the stag, however he is not there anymore.

Instead a human stands in front of them, tall, taller than Snape in fact with a crown on his head, made of simple wood, or maybe it is only his antlers in a different shape now that he took his human form. He is breathtakingly beautiful, his curly brown hair faintly familiar to Harry. His handsome face is covered with a beard which is lined with silver streaks of hair. Only now does Harry realize that though the man looks young, his dark eyes convey experience and certain kind of wisdom.

Harry’s gaze wanders down on bare, slightly hairy chest. He feels indecent, even though the man in front of him is covered just like the children were. He turns his gaze back onto the stormy expression which, if possible, makes the handsome face even more outstanding.

“Do not sink to their level, my dear friends,” he says in a deep voice that reminds Harry of the thunder.

“They would deserve it,” snarls someone from Harry’s right and only now does Harry realize that the wolves had shifted shapes as well. They are twins, skin dark as the midnight, only their eyes different. One yellow as the Sun, the other blue as the clear sky at noon. Ears pointy and sharp, teeth even sharper even in this form.

The yellow eyed scratches his chin and grins at Harry. “Let me play with him…” he whispers, licking his lips dangerously.

“Not just yet, Eames,” the stag warns him. “Where are they?” he hisses then, rounding on Severus and Harry.

“Who?” blurts out the question Harry, which, as usual, does not make a sound.

Yet, the stag looks at him as he answers spiteful, “You know well, human.”

Severus snaps his head at Harry, who tries to say, “So you can hear what I say?” Once again, not a word comes out of his mouth, but the forest nymph seems to understand him.

“Of course I do,” he reacts, insulted. “I am not a dumb animal.”

“Then, pray tell, who exactly are you?” Snape speaks, his wand still pointed at the beautiful man.

“My name is Camus. I am the king of this forest. Your kind calls us nymphs, and hunts us for our blood. These are Allister and Eames and if you would not like to become more familiar with them, I recommend you tell me, where are our children? Where is Ine?”

The deep voice carries the threat crystal clear, but Eames and Allister bare their fangs at them just to be sure.

“Ine?” Harry asks back. “Is she… is she the little deer?”

“She is the princess, not an animal, human.” Camus snorts angrily. “She has not been sighted since this morning. What have you done with her?” He demands.

“We?” Snape cries. “We haven’t seen her since last night.”

“I did,” Harry says, though Snape still cannot hear him.

“Where is she?” Camus thunders.

Harry realizes all of a sudden that the storm has quieted around them. The rain is still pouring down on them but the lightings has stopped and he suspects it is because Camus took his human form in order to speak with them.

“We met this afternoon in the town nearby. I was lost, and she led me… onto the path I was looking for, but I haven’t seen her since. We did not touch her, we do not want to hurt her.”

“Do not lie, human,” roars Eames, his yellow eyes flashing in the darkness. “We heard what you did last night.”

“I was cursed,” Harry tries to explain. “We need a lock of hair from an innocent nymph, or I die. Nothing else, just a lock of hair. We did not want to hurt her. That’s why we are here now actually… we hoped she, or one of her friends would show up tonight as well, and maybe… maybe we could ask her.”

The cruel laughter from Allister forces Snape to point his wand at the wolf.

“Bad luck, human,” Allister grins. “There are no more innocent nymphs in this forest. They have been taken, all four of them. If not by you, then someone else from your race came and ripped them from their home.”

The black wand falls to the ground. Snape is staring at the wolf, hands shaking. His gaze slowly turns to Harry, who feels the exact terror he sees in Snape’ black eyes.

“What… what did you just say?” Snape breathes, his usually strong voice now shattered.

“You heard Allister, human. Our children are gone, taken from us. We need them. Without them, this forest is doomed. Without the new life, the forest and all its inhabitants will die when Winter comes.”

Snape looks as if he has been slapped. His eyes are wide open, he is staring into nothingness. “Taken?” he repeats faintly.

“The forest is not the only thing that will die,” Harry mutters. “So will I.” He turns his head and watches Snape who stares in front of himself blindly.

Camus lifts his chin. “And why would I care about your death, human? Does the Sun care about the death of the ant? Your kind is nothing to us.”

The motion is so fast, not even the wolves have a chance to react. Snape goes barehanded against the king, one hand gripping the antler like crown so it cannot hurt him, the other closing around the thin, brown neck.

“SNAPE!” Harry shouts in vain but jumps there trying to get the man off the stag before the wolves will drag him off with fangs and claws.

He pulls Snape off and hauls him further away from the other three. The wolves are once again snarling at them in their animal forms, snapping their strong jaws towards them.

“How dare you,” Camus grunts. He drags his long fingers over the bruised skin of his neck, but otherwise he does not seem bothered. More irate than scared, he screws up his nose in disgust. “You do not touch a king.”

Snape tenses against Harry’s hold as he screams, “A touch will be the least of your worries if you do not help him!”

But Camus turns his back on them and walks slowly on two legs towards the forest and the little rivulet. “Creatures who would take from the innocents of nature deserve death or even worse,” he announces, turning halfway back. “Nothing will help you, human, from now on. We treated you well, we let you take our plants, our berries, because you have been always careful. But you betrayed us, you hurt our children and you will not step into our forest one more time. Or you will be sentenced to the same end as your friend.”

And with that he turns back to his original form. The huge stag skips over rocks and broken branches as he dashes through the little field and enters the forest with the wolves following his every step.

Breaking free, Snape runs after them.

“I beg you!” he shouts desperate but then the darkness at the edge of the forest shifts. More animals show up, yellow eyes glint dangerously in the moonlight, wolves howl, bears growl and other stags slash into firm oak trenches with their sharp antlers.

Camus stops at the edge of the trees. He looks back at Snape who stands just at the little creek.

“I beg you…” Snape repeats quietly.

The wind brings Camus’ cold answer, “Not one step closer, human.”

**o.O.o**

He does not realize he has collapsed until he sees Potter’s shoes next to his knees. His fingers dig into the muddy ground, he wants to scream, however the ache in his chest is so great, air barely comes out of him. He does not want to look up, he barely even wants to think.

The storm around them turns even worse. The air is way colder now; must have dropped many degrees even since they came outside. There is no thunder or lightning anymore, but the rain falls relentless, gaining strength from Severus’ pain. Hail assaults the ground, the ice not just cold but sharp, scratching his face.

Potter grips his shoulder, nudges him, pulls on him, but only manages to jerk his jacket off.

Severus stares at the ground, watches the small ice pieces as they melt in the mud. He cannot think, cannot move, he can barely breath still. But he can hear, and there is plenty of things to listen to. The grim hail around them beats the fields like a drum. The little rivulet that marks the border of the forest has swelled up. It chitters noisily now as it splashes over rocks that once hindered it. The wind howls like the wolves, surging through the trees madly, ruthlessly gripping branches and leaves and tearing them off. It does not care what it hurts, it presses against Severus too, it grips into his long hair first and tries to snatch it but its efforts are in vain. It heaves against Severus once more, unyielding and never giving up. Severus can feel it blow through him, as if he were bare naked. He knows why the cold wind has come, its attempts are clearly to rip out his heart but it is too late for it now. What it wants is gone now, shattered, like the calm image of the Indian Summer.

Among all the things he can hear, there is one he does not, and never will again: Potter.

He does not realize what he sees is real at first. Like many worms digging through the grime, letters are written into the sludge by an invisible hand.

**I am still here** , is Potter’s reaction to his despair.

He looks up finally, and sees that indeed, the young man is still there, smiling brightly as if his death sentence has not been signed just now. He _is_ there, but for how long, wonders Severus.

He stands finally with a little help from Potter and looks at the drenched man.

He brushes a wet strand, dark like coal, from Potter’s face and leans in for a small kiss. He knows Potter is taken unawares, he stiffens slightly in surprise but then softens like the ground beneath their legs.

It is just a small kiss and sighing, Severus pulls back. As the green eyes flutter open, and Potter focuses on him through his wet glasses, he smiles again. He takes Severus’ hand and places it on his heartbeat.

Severus stares from one eye to the other, understanding somewhere deep what Potter tries to tell him. He is still alive, still willing to fight, never the one who lets himself be beaten just by one blow. By every drop of rain that hits him, Severus gains more and more power to face the next couple of days. He feels determined as he watches the green eyes, determined not to be weak, not to give up just yet.

He holds Potter’s hand as they walk back inside. They both cast a glance at the old settee in the living room, knowing, it will not be used tonight. He pulls Potter up the spiral staircase, never letting go of that warm, wet hand.

They stop only in the middle of Severus’ bedroom, just standing, watching each other as water drops on the floor from their drenched clothes. The dripping sounds loud like drumming in the absolute silence between them.

The darkness seems haunting. Shadows lurk in every corner, long clawed fingers scratch on the window glass. An invisible monster breathes down Severus’ neck and he shudders, but then he feels Potter’s warm touch on his shoulder as he is pushing off the cold, soaked jacket from Severus’ shoulder.

Potter cocks his head to the right and looks up at him, waiting. He just stands there, expecting something from Severus, his hands next to his body now, unmoving. Severus knows he should be taking off the cold jacket, too and everything else that is dripping water onto the floor, yet he first has something more urging to do.

He caps Potter’s neck with one hand, his other slither beneath that heavy jacket and he pulls the young man closer, kissing him softly.

He cannot hear but he can feel Potter’s shuddering breathes on his lips as his mouth gently moves. He is tender, so delicate as if he would be handling the most fragile artefact he ever came across. Or maybe he just knows, whatever he has with Potter right now, here in the Sanctuary, is indeed delicate, just a fleeting ray of sunshine in the upcoming Winter.

He knows the cold eastern wind he has been so afraid of, has arrived finally and the Indian Summer has ended. What he does not yet know, only suspects, _dreads_ , is that the winter that is coming will be harsher than ever. No fire will burn to warm his soul anymore. There will not be any rays of sunshine any longer. It will only be dark clouds, black as his soul, on the sky. There will be icy wind across the lands.

And emptiness.

His memories of the Summer that has lived with him in the last couple of days will not be forgotten – never, he tells himself – but they will not be enough to keep the icy hands of sorrow away from his heart.

And yet, knowing full well that this time there will be no miracles, no _nothing_ , he is still unwilling to give up hope. He wants to fight against the cold wind, he wants to keep the Sun around for even a little longer. There is still a little spark somewhere deep inside his soul, waiting to be nourished into a full out fire, burning relentless against any coldness.

Potter’s kisses are the only thing keeping that spark alive, keeping _him_ alive, he realizes as he pulls away.

Potter frowns at him through his wet glasses and raises his wand. He is writing in the air, his red letters are glowing angry again.

_If these are my last few days, I really don_ _’_ _t want to spend it looking at your sour face._

Severus snorts, and steps away, watching as Potter shrugs out of his clothes.

“Well, I believe you do not need me anymore, anyways. You are free to go, wherever you like.”

_The only place I want to go, is under your covers_ , he adds with a blue colour almost coyly. _It_ _’_ _s freezing here._

Severus shreds all the soaked through layers until he is standing in underwear only, just like Potter.

 “What are you waiting for, then?” Inquires Severus.

Potter does not need more incentive, or maybe he is just afraid that the invitation will be withdrawn if he does not act quickly. Severus follows him and the next moment they are lying next to each other under warm blankets.

They both are on their backs, watching the darkness which does not feel all that threating to Severus now. There is the unknown in there, just as always, but that tiny little spark, and Potter’s warm, almost burning body keeps the monsters away.

They reach out under the blanket and search through the endless covers until they find each other’s hands again. Everything feels lighter the moment they entangle their fingers once more.

The glow of Potter’s red letters cast an alarming light on them, but his words are nothing but soothing to Severus.

_When we lied under the blue sky and watched the clouds, you smiled. That_ _’_ _s what I want to see again, Severus. I want to see you smile again._

“What is there to smile about?” Severus asks, holding more firmly into that hand. “I know what is to come.”

_Tell me. I want to know, too._

“You will get sicker every day,” Severus explains. “This curse is like a parasite. It will spread all around your body. First it will be the coughs; they may come any day now. Then every cough will hurt more and more. There will be blood and that black, dark magic. You will feel week. There will be days you cannot gather enough strength to climb out of the bed. Your body however will try to fight it. You will be feverish every day. By the end, you will welcome these lucid dreams the fever will give you.”

He does not hear the sigh, but they are so close, he can feel Potter’s chest as it moves up and down. He presses his head to the messy wet hair and nuzzles it, inhaling Potter’s fresh scent.

“I feel like there is no tomorrow,” whispers Severus in a hoarse tone, trying to voice whatever plagues his soul. His eyes are closed, but still when he senses the red glowing of Potter’s words, he turns back and looks towards the darkness.

_I_ _’_ _m the one who will die, Severus. You will have many tomorrows._

“And I am the one who will have to live on knowing I could not help you, I could not hear your voice again, I could not…” He stops suddenly, feeling overwhelmed. There will be so many regrets in his future if he does not say it now, he knows it, yet, he chooses to not say the important things. “I told you, Potter, I am a selfish man.”

Potter turns to him but his words shine over Severus’ head. _Oh, I think your condition is far greater than selfishness,_ reads the red letters.

Severus looks at the knowing green eyes which are without judgement, resentment or even ridicule. There is nothing else just warmness and kindness. He does not have to say anything, he realizes.

Potter already knows.

“Undeniably,” says Severus quietly and when Potter’s lips turn up into a bright, happy smile, he cannot help, but mirror the motion.

They do not hear the approaching steps, no one ever does. All Severus realizes is that the bed sinks slightly, then something jumps on his legs. He has no doubt who graced his bed.

“So there you are,” welcomes Severus the cat, his sneer not reaching his heart. “I hoped I’ve lost you finally.”

The cat moves carefully up between their bodies until he reaches their chest. He rumbles loudly as he curls up, his noisy purring slowly calming Severus. He knows the cat will not be there the next morning, it usually leaves for a hunt by the time Severus wakes. But he is there now, and that is all what matters.

Whatever the harsh, merciless eastern wind might bring, the warm Sun still shines at them all.


	8. One Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an update to my Ree about a month ago... In my defense, I dont know what happened to Spring at all. People say it's June already. They must be lying.

The night is long and Severus spends it wide awake or sometimes on the borders of dreams, where visions of the worst and best scenarios of the upcoming days play in front of his eyes. In some of his dreams, Potter is dying, coughing up the dark miasma, or even more horrible, dead by the time the Sun comes up. His cold body is slowly enveloped in black magic until it turns into glimmering, colourful foam when Severus touches it panicking, and then it all scatters in the air as if he has never existed.

In another dream, or vision maybe, he sees the little dear; Ine is her name if he remembers correctly. They stand on a field facing each other as the Sun is rising on the east. Ine looks shy and timid as she watches Severus, her human face still unhurt and beautiful, just like her father’s. Her brown curls wave serenely in the gentle wind. Her white freckles on her brown skin light up in the gentle rays of the Sun as if they are glowing. She tilts her head to the right and looks up at Severus like that. She has huge eyes, mesmerizing, so innocent.

“I’m sorry, if I hurt you,” says Severus in the dream. “It was not my intention.”

Ine nods, then asks with the innocent curiosity of children, who still do not quite grasp the proper manners of a conversation. “Do you love him?”

“Does it matter?” Severus asks back. He knows it is all a dream, but not in his deepest dream when he is all alone would he admit to the strong feelings. “I would do anything for him.”

“It matters to me,” Ine says. “And what matters to me, matters to the forest. So essentially your answer matters to every tree, every flower, every animal in that forest you love so much.”

“Who are you?” Severus asks and the dreamscape changes. They are in the depth of the forest now, there is barely enough light to see what is around them, and even if there would be, Severus knows, this is a dream and thus everything is just a figment of his imagination.

“I am the little snowdrop you collected last winter to cure that muggle woman. I am the trunk of that oak you had once fallen asleep under during that warm summer afternoon. I am the little creek you drank from when you were thirsty. I am the forest you love. I am Ine. Who are you?”

“I am Severus,” he answers, but that does not satisfy the child.

“I know your name. But who are you?”

“The person who is willing to do anything to save him,” Severus says.

Ine shakes his head. “Except admit your feelings.”

“Why is that so important?” Severus asks again.

Ine starts circling him, green grass and colourful flowers sprout under her feet. “Why is the Sun important?” Ine asks back.

Severus does not understand, but that is usual in a dream. Dreams rarely make any sense. “It gives warmth and light for the flowers. It nurtures them.”

“Why is _he_ important?” Asks the fawn child. “There are so many humans,” she adds seemingly just as an afterthought.

“He is the Sun to me,” admits Severus quietly.

“Who are you, Severus?” Ine asks. She is smiling now, her circling has stopped. She is standing right in front of Severus, her bare deer feet almost touching Severus' also bare toes.

“The man who loves Harry Potter,” He answers calm. The admission hurts him. He is in love with a dead man. Yet saying it strengthens him also. It gives him power to hold on, to stay strong, to not give up. He is unwilling to give up love. With the pain, he also feels determined.

“Is that all?” Ine asks, sounding disappointed. “Is that all you are?”

Severus is confused. He thought this is what the girl wanted to hear and yet, now she seems bored with him. “No,” he answers defiant. “I am a Potion Master. I am a well-trained dualist. I am a proud Slytherin. I am the only person who ever lied to Voldemort and lived to tell that tale. I am one of the people who helped killed him.”

“What else?” Ine asks impatient, stomping, her little feet.

Severus gets more and more exasperated by the continuous questions. He does not know what to answer to satisfy the child, he does not know what steps to take. Ine is something he never came across with. She is a mystery to him, a riddle he cannot solve.

“I am a murderer. I tortured people. I am a bad person.”

She rolls her huge eyes and shakes her head. “No,” she chides Severus. “Who are you?”

“What do you want to know!? Tell me, Ine, what do you want me to say!?” He cries frustrated.

The dreamscape changes again. They are at the edge of the forest. Ine holds up her tiny arm and points at something further away from the line of the trees next to them. Severus turns that way, watching the scene that enfold from the mist.

It is winter now, the snow hides the brown fields under its cold blanket. The trees are bare, Severus’ little cottage seems empty too. The picture Ine is showing him is not dead though, it is full of life.

A murder of crows treads on the soft whiteness, hopping closer to the half-eaten huge pumpkin that lies close to the edge of the house. Smaller birds swarm around the apple trees, munching on the seeds that are almost overflowing the bird feeders. Their noisy chirruping draws the man from the house, who sits on the loveseat on the porch, watching them with a soft smile.

Left to the crows, two deer are timidly drinking from a trough that supplies fresh, potable water now that the little creek and the lake have frozen almost completely. They are not really bothered by the human, nor the other animals, but as always, they seem alert.

Severus’ gaze shift to the right, closer to the human.

Himself.

He is not alone now. There is a cat, small and orange that slowly saunters closer to him. His ribs are poking through his mangy fur. He is limping lightly. Slowly, his counterpart edges closer to the cat, reaching out a hand to befriend the hurt animal. He is scratched, but the man does not give up. He sits down on the cold steps and waits for the cat to approach him.

It takes some time, but eventually the orange cat stops licking his wounds and steps closer. The man pulls out his wand and summons something that dashes through the slightly open door.

Severus knows it was potions for the wounds and nutrition.

A bowl is placed in front of the cat, who licks it clean, then meows loudly, demanding more. Instead of the potion, the man gives him food now. Not much, just as much as the cat’s undernourished stomach can handle at the time.

Astonished, Severus realizes that Ine is slipping her tiny hand in his. “I know who you are,” not waiting for a reaction, she goes on. “You are a friend of the forest. You have been since you arrived here. We love you. Even father respects you. Do not let them forget that, Severus. You have been good to us, it should be time, we are good to you as well. Remind them.”

Severus is smiling down at the infuriating child. “Why force me to admit my feelings?” he asks not quite able to bring himself to feel even remotely ire.

Ine giggles. “Harry knows. Ask him.”

“You tell me,” Severus demands.

Ine shrugs, and steps away, pulling Severus towards the forest. They walk quietly for a while. In the meanwhile, winter turns into spring around them.

“Every time you come to our forest, you show your respect and love to us. In return, we give you what you need. Love makes you who you are, not pain. Love helped you keep him safe and love will help you save him again.”

“I do not understand,” Severus says. “How can my love save him?”

“Every living soul needs love and warmness. We all flourish and grow in the sunlight,” Ine explains. “We need its nourishment, especially during the coldness of the winter. My forest needs me because this winter I will be their Sun. I will keep them alive. I will give meat to the wolves, I will give grass to the deer, I will give water to the grass” she turns to Severus, her eyes full of innocent power, excitement, wonder. “The others will help me. Morwen will dig deep and find me roots to keep me nourished. Neirin will curl around me and keep me warm when the moon takes over on the sky. Nuada will howl to chase away the clouds so I can feel the sunshine as well. They will help me help the others. Do you understand how you can save him now, Severus?”

“No,” Severus answers, if anything more confused than any other time. Dreams in general make no sense. But this is weirder than all the others. What Ine says makes sense, it is almost logical. But dreams are not logical.

Ine stomps with her tiny leg again, her huge ears flutter in ire. “Listen!” She orders in her childish, thin voice, grabbing Severus’ other hand too and pulling him down until Severus is kneeling in front of her. Only when they see each other eye to eye does Ine whisper secretively, “Do not let him wither. He is your Sun, but you are his too. You reflect each other’s warmness, you feed from each other.”

Severus nods at the little girl, who finally smiles up at him brightly. “The longer he holds on, the more time you have to find us. His death will be the trigger.”

“Find you?” Severus echoes, hollow.

“Of course,” chuckles Ine and suddenly, Severus realizes, they are not alone. The little bear boy is sitting in front of them, playing with the grass, the bunny girl is keeping close to him, searching his warmness. Laughing, someone jumps on Severus’ back, wolf feet nudges into his side, but human hands clatch his shoulders until a laughing boy’s face shows up next to his. “You have to find us,” the boy barks, playfully.

The other two lifts their head as well and they come closer. Severus is speechless, the scene unimaginably astonishing even for a dream.

“Hello,” says Neirin, the bear boy. He is bigger than the others, but not much older. His large round ears stick out of his head like small fans. “The time is limited.”

“We have something for you,” says Ine and she beckons the tiny little girl closer, the only one who still refuses to join them.

“Morwen,” mutters Severus and her long, decumbent bunny ears prickle slightly. She hops closer, her movements more rabbit like, than human, even though her form is not animal. She is the youngest, Severus can tell, not quite able yet to control the shift between her forms. As she stands in front of Severus, her toes closer to each other than her heals, she is pulling one of her ears in front of her face as if trying to hide behind it.

“I won't hurt you,” assures her Severus, but she only comes one step closer when the wolf boy, Nuada reaches out a hand towards her.

“Don’t be afraid, we don’t bite,” he chuckles, showing her his sharp teeth.

Ine stomps, crying, “Nuada!” then reaches her hand towards the tiny girl too. “Come Morwen, we need you for this as well.”

Neirin seems to be the one closest to her as when he calls her name, she runs straight to him, burrowing her head in his chubby stomach. The other two giggles at her, but there is no actual jeer in their voice. Slowly, she starts laughing as well, her edginess oozing out of her.

Ine, still holding on to Severus’ left hand, holds it up. The other three grasp his hand as well, Morwen is the last, yet her touch is the strongest.

“Please help us,” Morwen says, timidly.

“Your forest needs you,” Neirin nods.

“But hurry, it’s not just Harry’s life that’s on the line,” barks Nuada.

Ine is the last to speak. “Shine brighter than ever. Bring back the Indian Summer for us and for him, bring back the warmness. Fight the cold for just a little longer, then we can help, too.”

“I will do the best I can,” promises Severus.

Ine smiles at him. “And hurry,” she says.

With that, all four of them presses down a finger that digs deep into Severus’ skin. Nuada’s nail cuts through his flesh, he feels the pain, but there is no blood. Instead he can see a red line move under his skin and slither up along his veins until it reaches the open mouthed snake that has tainted his skin for so long.

“Look at me,” Ine says and Severus tears his eyes from the blood that rewrites his past. His gaze rests on Ine’s green eyes, different than Harry’s yet similarly glimmering in the faint morning sunshine. He knows he should feel pain. Whatever is powerful enough to rewrite Voldemort’s Protean Charm would require immense pain from Severus and yet all he feels is the warm touch of the children, and the soothing effect Ine’s green eyes has on him.

“Watch the leaves,” Ine says and Severus knows this is goodbye.

Wide open, green eyes look back at him, but the hair is black and ruffled not curly. The skin is suntanned, but not auburn. He is not in the forest anymore, he is in bed with Potter lying next to him, holding his left hand in his. There is worry on the familiar face and Potter lifts Severus’ arm, his grasp strong like the children’s were.

Though Severus knows it would be more logical to believe that his dream has mixed with his wishes and reality, that Potter’s hold was what he had felt, that those green eyes stared at him all along, he knows that is not what had happened and he does not even have to look down on his arm to see what Potter tries to show him so frantically.

Instead he turns, and cups Potter’s face with his hand that is suddenly released by the shocked young man. He kisses Potter, prying his teeth apart with his tongue, nudging it further inside until he finds another and he can dance with it.

It takes barely a second and Potter’s hands slither in his hair and he is pulled over the young man. He moves, slides and wriggles until he is lying on top of that lithe body, his knees on both sides of Potter’s thighs, his groin rutting slowly against Potter’s hardening member. He pulls away and looks down, bright green stares back at him.

“Fuck, Snape…” mouths Potter, then laughs noiselessly, pushing up his hips pressing his cock to Severus, who moans and grasps the hands of his Sun and draws them over the black mane, that is more untamed than ever.

His lips are back on Potter but he is not kissing him anymore – he devours him every other way he can. Severus drags his lips along the long neck softly, teeth barely scraping the flesh then bites down on the curve of Potter’s neck with just enough force. The moan he anticipates never comes, but Potter jolts under him violently.

Severus pulls away and opens his eyes, looking into the emerald eyes that has never left his face, that are filled with need and pleasure already.

Yet, Severus feels something is missing.

He tries again, searching for whatever he needs, moving further down on the slim, keening body, licking every inch of flesh he finds, teasing nipples between his sharp teeth and Potter bucks and writhes under him, his freed hands grabbing Severus by the hair, pulling him up into a searing kiss, then pushing him back down, trying to steer him, as if Potter would be in control.

Suddenly frustrated with the mystery that haunts him he sits up and as if Potter would know what he is about to do, the young man turns around willingly, offering himself.

Severus groans and all but tears the underwear from Potter who lifts his body to make it easier for Severus. Potter looks back over his shoulder, wicked grin playing on his lips, his eyes so bright as if indeed, the Sun would be shining out of them. Severus lowers his weight slowly, rubbing his clad hardness against Potter’s cleft, drawing a shudder out of the boy.

Again, the sensation that he is missing something strengthens but he cannot stop, not anymore.

Potter reaches a hand behind trying to push the only remaining clothes from Severus, in which he is successful. With some help, Severus' underwear ends up forgotten somewhere on the bed.

He kisses Potter’s shoulder moaning with need as his aching cock lies pressing against that warm flesh. He kisses the nape and Potter shudders. He kisses along the shoulder blades, he kisses along the spine and Potter arches, his hands grasping into the sheets. He parts the buttocks and kisses Potter’s entrance with infinite gentleness and the boy all but throws him off of the bed.

A part of Severus’ mind finally understands, but he is way too into whatever he is doing. His tongue moves against puckered skin, he licks and sucks and Potter squirms madly under him as if trying to get away.

Finally, understanding comes fully and leaving not a single doubt behind, when he tries to press a finger inside, and Potter jolts, all his muscles tensing. As if the cold eastern wind has brushed over his whole body, Severus tenses too and all but jumps away from Potter, scampering towards the edge of the bed.

Only when he is sitting with his legs over the bed, his bony elbow cutting into his bare thighs, his face buried into his shaking palm does he realize his worries are more likely meaningless. When Potter touches his shoulder timidly, he knows for certain, yet he cannot turn back. Hands are folded around him and he is embraced from behind by a warm, calming body, soft lips kiss his neck and shoulder, slowly coaxing him into speaking.

“I can't…” he whispers, his voice broken. “I can't hear you…”

Potter stops for a moment, then kisses his nape again. Severus knows he awaits a deeper explanation, something, he is not sure he can provide.

“You are not just mute, you are silenced. Not even your sigh makes a feeble noise that would assure me that what I’m doing is something you… want.”

The arms suddenly hold him stronger. Potter nuzzles him from behind.

“It feels like assault,” Severus presses out, shaking. “Or even worse because I cannot even hear your struggling. It feels like I have broken you. I need to hear you.”

He holds the hands that embrace him and turns his head, seeking forgiveness. Potter’s kiss on his lips isn't tentative but forceful and demanding. He knows Potter wants him, he can feel the need in every move of those wet lips, yet he knows it is not enough.

Hurting Potter is the last things he wants to do, and yet, he needs to hear those rapid breathes he can feel on his lips. He needs to hear the moans that echo his because Potter’s writhing body is not enough to convince him that it is pleasure the young man feels and not pain.

He is being pulled back on the bed and he lets himself. Soon he is lying in the middle, with Potter looking down on him from the side. He writes in the air where both of them can see.

 _You are not hurting me, Severus,_ the red words tell him and Severus is convinced he has known this all along. Yet, when he thinks of continuing where he left off, he feels numb and not able to move.

 _Can I show it to you?_ Comes the question, red as blood.

Severus nods, incapable of speaking, incapable to believe he would deserve such man as the one leaning over his naked body right now.

Potter looks beautiful as he takes Severus body between his legs. His spine is straight, his shoulders pulled back as if he would be saluting for the morning sunshine that caresses his body. He trails a finger down Severus pale chest, then all five of his digits do the stroking. He is so gentle, so caring and what is most important to Severus, his green eyes never leave Severus’ gaze. He holds on to Severus’ black stare, always reassuring. He does nothing else, it is only his fingers that slowly stroke Severus back into life. His touch burns white lines into Severus skin, even if Harry never touches the more sensitive areas.

Until he does. Until he leans down and keeping their gaze still unbroken, he licks Severus’ nipple, then sucks it into his mouth. Severus gasps and so does Harry.

He still cannot hear it, but he feels the cold air that grazes the sensitive nubs and can see as Potter eyelashes flutter slightly.

Potter smirks then does it again. He blows air on the wet skin, causing gooseflesh all over Severus’ skin. Finally, Severus reaches out too and Potter’s smirk turns into a relieved smile when he is pulled into a fervent kiss.

Avid hand searches his body, sliding down, moving relentless, exploring until it finally arrives to its destination. Once there however, Potter slows down and moves only inches every minute, driving Severus crazy.

One single finger slides up and down on his hard manhood, stroking him gently, dancing on the soft skin. He grunts into Potter’s mouth, bites his lips but the only thing he achieves is that Potter leans away with a wicked grin, his single finger still stroking Severus, his green eyes stuck on his face too.

“Potter…” Severus growls warningly, realizing that he himself is not mute. “Potter…” he breathes again, desperate, pleading.

Another one joins the single finger and the pressure is harder too, pushing Severus’ cock against his belly as they travel up and down on him. He is hard, harder than before even, the sensual caress not leaving his body intact. He is falling apart by every small touch, every teasing kiss, every look.

Potter is lost too, or will be when Severus reaches out his hand and grasps without any teasing. But unlike Potter, he is not moving his hand, he wants to see the young man thrust forward and move in his tight hold. And Potter does so; hips bucking forward he fucks Severus' hand, the head of his cock leaking precome right over Severus’ erection which Potter smears then with his two fingers.

For minutes, Severus’ eyes are stuck on that gorgeous manhood that drives forwards with rhythmic pushes but soon he returns to admire the adamant, keen expression on Potter’s handsome face.

He can see Potter moan, he can almost hear his heavy gasps, he can all but listen to his needy sighs. He pushes himself away from the bed and sits up, pulling Potter to himself and kissing the young man hard on the lips.

Potter grasps both their cocks and holds them in a firm grip, moving his fingers up and down and Severus keens groaning loud into their wet, sloppy kiss. He is pushed back down on the bed, Potter holds on for a while stroking their cocks with his hand, pressing his erection to Severus, smearing their precome, but it seems he needs only minutes and he is on the edge himself, the sight bringing Severus there as well.

Potter presents an exquisite display, his nude body in the rising Sun something Severus doubts he will ever forget. His wet body glints in the light, his muscles tense from the effort of holding himself together. His eyes are closed for only moments, but otherwise always gleaming like gemstones.

There is nothing soft or tender in their movements anymore, everything is taken over by avid pleasure demanding to be set free. And it _is_ set free as neither Severus nor Harry has any control over what is happening or why. One moment Severus sits up again, his lips searching out hard little nubs, his tongue teasing them until he suddenly finds himself tossed back on the bed once more, held down by a hand on his chest, watching in awe and a certain kind of anticipation as Potter slithers furthers down, lips hovering over his twitching cock.

There is nothing soft or tender in Potter as he presses down his tongue hard and licks all the way up the long shaft or as he takes the head in his hot mouth and sucks on it, never taking his green eyes off of Severus.

“Fucking hell, Potter,” cries Severus and there is nothing soft or tender in him either, as he grasps into the black, unruly mane, all but tearing it out of Potter scalp and pulls the head and those sinful lips away from his cock before he could come down Potter’s throat like a needy teenager. His voice is rough as he whispers the spell that coats his fingers with lukewarm lubrication and his action hurried as he grasps Potter’s waist with one hand and teases his entrance with the other.

Potter straightens and grasps into his own hair, almost falling back as the finger finally enters him. His mouth is open in an endless cry, but it is pleasure that is written on his face, this time Severus is absolutely sure about that. And even if he was not, precome is dripping onto his belly from Potter’ cock, showing another clear evidence.

Potter is hardly able to control himself, he is fucking himself on Severus’ finger, who is more than willing to help him increase his pleasure. He adds a second digit suddenly and eyes green like leaves during the summer pop open and Potter falls forward leaning with his hands against Severus’ chest again.

If he is there already, he bends his head lower and sucks on the skin of Severus’ neck, dragging a wet line until he reaches his ears. His lips move against the soft cartridge and Severus does not realize he is saying something until Potter finally slows down slightly and grabs Severus’ erection again.

“I want you, Severus…” Potter mouths against his ear over and over again until they are perfectly lined up and Severus is finally pressing against Potter’s tight entrance.

Once he is inside, he never wants anything else, he realizes. This is the sunshine in the cold winter, this is what he needed for so long, that he wished for ever since they parted from each other three years ago. It is not just the sex, it is Potter’s warmness that is embracing him, filling him up with energy he has not felt for ages.

He moves, hips bucking up every thrust just a bit harder, going slightly deeper, making Potter’s breath, which he can still feel on his ear, hitch.

Then he is fully inside and they stop, immersing in the sensation. Potter sits up, his toned body all sweat and wetness, his black hair sticking to his forehead and looks down on Severus. His expression is straight, almost controlled as he bucks his hips slowly once, then twice. There is a cruel slowness in his motion as if to punish Severus – for what, he is not sure. Maybe for leaving three years ago just when it seemed they reached a point where they could work out their problems. Maybe for tricking him in the corn maze, or perhaps for not being able to cure him.

As if on cue and reading his mind again, Potter cups his chin to force his attention back from the past and the field of what ifs. His hold is strong, his gaze is even sterner.

Red letters show up between them. When one word is fully written the previous disappears.

_It_ _’_ _s-_

_Not-_

_Your-_

_Fault._

As the last letters fade slowly too, Potter leans down and kisses Severus who does not let him go when he tries to pull back. Severus follows him sitting up once more, his hand going to Potter’s lower back just to slip even further down. Long, strong fingers grab into Potter’s buttock and Severus makes him move, his gaze just as fierce as Potter.

“I know,” Severus answers. “But I will make it right.”

Potter smirks, his eyes softening. He raises an eyebrow, riding Severus’ cock with torturing slow moves, but at least he is moving finally. Severus meets him with matching rhythm, pushing away from the bed, gripping into the sheets and grasping Potter’s arse, guiding him down on his shaft.

The shift is subtle but Severus can feel it. He has a true Gryffindor in his lap now, taking control, moving fast up and down on a hard cock, sweating, moaning, swearing, crying - even if muted, Potter acts the same. His tempting lips move, forming words and the longer Severs watches them entranced the more he is actually able to read.

He wishes he could hear those words being uttered in a rough voice. He wants to hear Potter cry the most despicable things, beg for the most sinful acts, moan in longing as Severus touches him.

Potter is swearing between cries, begs for more, begs to be taken. Severus’ name is etched onto his lips, his “s”-s so distinct Severus can all but hear it. Assurances slip from those red lips, Severus can catch only half the words but he guesses the full meaning of what Potter wants to tell him so badly.

“One day,” he promises as his hand moves up across Potter’s back and he turns their bodies, smashing the man into the sheets, pressing inside him hard and fast, “one day you will say those words aloud. One day, I won't let you come until I hear you beg loud and clear.”

Green eyes are wide open, the smug expression overtaken by lust and desire as he listens.

“One day,” Severus presses out between tightly clenched teeth as he fucks Potter, his cock sliding into wet, heat, “you will whisper my name and cry it over and over again.”

Potter says it now, moans his name frowning as Severus pounds his arse, hitting his prostate irregularly.

“Open your eyes,” Severus commands and the green eyes are on him again. “I know you want to tell me something but I don’t want to hear it now. One day, when you will be able to utter those three little words, when you will _say_ it and I don’t have to read it off your lips I will listen to it, but not now.”

Potter is nodding, his bright green eyes clouded with pleasure. He buries his fingers in Severus’ hair and pulls him down by his shoulder. He tries to kiss him, but he is too close to the edge, his mouth open, chest heaving.

Severus slows himself, his thrust deep, languid, pressing slowly inside Potter, who all but screams now, voicelessly. “One day,” he groans in a deep voice, barely holding on, “I will admit to that condition you accused me of last night, but only when you can say the words after me, when you too can admit it, loud and clear.”

The green eyes open in surprise and Severus only has to push forward once more and he comes, sheathed deep inside Potter’s arse. He can feel Potter clenching and unclenching around him, feel his body convulse, feel his semen spurt out of his cock that is trapped between their sleek bodies.

He could stop moving, but he does not. He drives into the warm body over and over again, making Potter claw at his back, his shoulder, bite his own lower lip raw and then kidnap Severus’ too. 

In the end he collapses on the younger man, breathless, exhausted and yet full of some strange power that fills up every cell in his body. He shifts, trying to pull out of Potter and roll off him to let him breath as well, but Putter turns with him, caressing him with shaky fingers.

When Severus opens his eyes he sees the leaf green eyes just like when he woke from his strange dream with Ine and the others.

This reminds him of something that has eluded his mind all this time, though understandable. During the last hour or so he was much more occupied with Potter’s body than his own.

He holds up his left arm to examine it. He is not surprised to see that the Dark Mark has transformed. The ink that was used to draw the snake and the skull has been altered by the nymphs and now shows an old twisted tree, much like the Whomping Willow at Hogwarts. Its roots twist and twirl beneath the ground, its old trunk coiling around its own gnarled body, its knobbed branches reach towards the sky.

Unlike his previous tattoo this is not motionless. The tree waves serenely in the invisible wind which curls around it affectionately, luring the green leaves off one by one. As a leaf slowly cascades onto the ground, it changes colour turning from fresh green to Sun yellow, then orange like the tabby cat, and finally blood red as it touches the ground. Down below, between the rugose roots it joins another one, blood red still but slowly turning into auburn, then black when it dies in the very end.

Potter reaches out and caresses his new mark and Severus turns his head towards him. He expects a surprised expression, shocked maybe, but what he sees is a smiling Potter.

“Ine?” He mouths questioning.

Severus nods and tells him about the dream.

When he is done, Potter pulls his wand from the nightstand and writes over their heads.

_It seems whoever cursed me wanted me to come here_ _…_ _to you._

Severus turns to him bodily and pulls Potter in an embrace. “One day,” he whispers, “I will thank them.”


	9. A Broken Soul

The air is cold and rain is still falling relentlessly, threatening to bring another great flood to the whole world. But the thunder has quieted, there is no lightning or rumbling in the sky. With the departure of Eames and Allister the wind stopped howling as well. Not even birds dare tweet now, not to enrage their king with their sweet songs. The forest is all but muted like Potter, and Severus wonders if he will be allowed to hear it again one day.

Everything is quiet and grey. There is only the gentle knocking of raindrops on the leaves. There are only the colourless clouds in the sky. The Sun has fled, or has been forced to hide. It seems, so have the inhabitants of the forest.

Yet Severus knows better than to attempt to cross the line. He stays far away and yet close enough, lingering on his memories of the place. How many times has he walked in there in the middle of the night and returned unscathed? Hundred? Probably more. Ine was right in the dream, he has been a friend of this forest and now he is treated like an enemy.

Is he indeed the enemy? – he asks himself, kicking wet leaves on the ground. He knows, he would be more than willing to plunder the forest and look for the innocent nymphs if that would help Potter. He would burn it to ashes if that could save that foolish Gryffindor. But the forest is safe from him now, the nymphs are gone, no one here can help Potter.

Who would take them? The question appears in his mind every minute since he has started his little, solitary walk. Who would be so cruel to kill an innocent forest spirit? Are they trying to gain galleons or is this about something more? He suspects it would be the latter, mostly because Potter was driven here. Someone cursed Potter, knowing he would seek out help here, with Severus.

But how did they know, where Severus lived? How did they know about the nymphs? Only a handful of people knew about Severus’s home and even less would be disloyal to him. Who was it then who betrayed not just Severus but the Hero of the Wizarding World as well? What was so important to sacrifice Harry Potter for?

And what did Ine mean when she said, Potter’s death will be the trigger?

He looks at the tree on his hand which sways gently in the invisible gust of air, less and less leaves crowning its gnarled branches. There is still plenty, but not even nearly enough for Severus. He wants to see it in full bloom and then wishes he could see the old tree dressed in all green as it would look during a Summer afternoon.

Whoever kills Harry Potter is a doomed man, and they must know that as well. But then why? Why risk it all? Are they so sure about not being found that they dare take such enormous risk?

There are two kinds of people, who would do anything, no matter the risk: the ones who act because they are in love and the ones who are desperate. Could this be about love? Or is it desperation? Or maybe neither…

Or maybe, much like Severus’ actions half his life, it is all for someone else. Maybe it is love _and_ desperation. He knew burning down a forest he loved and cherished would be the least he would be willing to do for Potter. Maybe, whoever cursed the man feels the same for someone as well. They are, after all, willing to kill a Hero and be doomed for a lifetime – no sane man would risk that for gold.

Thoughts of Potter lead, ultimately, back to their morning together. Severus shudders as images and feelings surface again, but unlike the rain, this spread warmness all around his body. He does not understand the happening of this weekend at all, much like Potter’s thoughts. What is happening between them? How is this even possible? And more importantly, how long will it last? Eventually Potter will return to his own life. Eventually, this will be nothing more than a, perhaps, sweet memory. But when will that moment come? Why is Potter still here waiting for him back in the cottage, making breakfast? Why was he so adamant to utter those word, which mean the life for some, and damnation for others?

“Why are you here?” Severus voices the question that has been on his mind from the very first moment he saw Potter on his property. “What is it that you want? What is it that _I_ can give you?”

He knows an answer would never come which is why he is so surprised when it does come.

“I was waiting for you,” says a bodiless female voice from between the trees. “What I want is my son, which is exactly what you can give me. If you hurry, that is.”

“Who is it?” Cries Severus, pulling his wand.

“My name is Daere. I believe you have met my son, Neirin.”

A woman steps out from the line of trees, brushing rain off her black skin. She appears to be wearing thick, furry boots, but once again Severus realizes those are her own legs. Her ears, much like her son’s are rounded and bear like not human, but these are more proportioned than the son’s. She is chubby and radiates warmth and strength at the same time.

“Careful,” Severus warns the nymph. “Camus does not approve of me. You might get in trouble.”

Daere waves nonchalantly. “Camus does not approve of anything since his daughter was kidnapped. The only problem is, with attitude like that, he disregards our best chance at finding them. He seems to be forgetting that Ine, though our beloved princess, is not the only one missing.”

There is some almost touchable sadness in her voice and immediately Severus understands that his problem is miniscule compared to these nymphs’. Four parents have lost their children, the very essence of their home, the ones who will help the forest all during the cruel winter that is to come. His anger towards Camus lessens as he imagines the pain a parent might feel at dreadful times like this. Not to mention, Camus is more than that. He is also a king, the life of his people depends on Ine.

“I saw your son,” Severus informs her quietly and Daere’s eyes go wide. She moves out of the forest. Her steps carry unimaginable strength, the ground trembles beneath her and Severus knows this woman would move a mountain to save her son. “Neirin and the others are still well. They… visited me in my dreams,” He explains uncertain. “They asked me to help them, to find them. They gave me this,” He shows Daere his new mark.

Strong fingers grasp his wrist and Severus is surprised to see tears fall down the black, round cheeks. “They have chosen you,” she states. “Good.”

“I do not know what to do.” Severus confesses, pulling his hand away.

“I’m here to help you. You can walk freely in the human world, we cannot. We are restricted in our forest. You can be our ears and eyes.”

“You know I want to help, but how? It could be anyone.” Severus points out.

“There was a woman here, many times. We do not know how she has found us, but she came to the forest many times. She never hurt anyone, it was her not doing anything at all that alerted us in the first place. She was not here to collect ingredients, or to tour the valleys as so many has done before her. She was just coming to the edge of our land and watched us.”

“How did she look?” Inquired Severus.

“Sad,” she said morosely. “That is all I can say. Most humans look alike to us. But she was magical, of that we are sure.”

That is not much, Severus thinks bitterly. “Alright. We will do our best to find your children.”

“Thank you,” she says with a light nod of her head. “Something for your friend,” she adds as she holds out her hand palm up. “It should help him with the pain.”

When Severus looks at her suspiciously, she smiles. “Neirin told me what you did. I do not blame you,” she assures him kindly. “We all go to desperate measures to save the ones we love. Which is why I ask you to forgive Camus when the moment comes. Ine is the only thing left for him from Asgre. She was our queen, the heart of this forest. She was taken last winter.”

“Was it…” Severus cannot bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Wizards, yes,” Daere nods gravely. “They came with the Sun and killed her before anyone could even notice their presence…”

“I did not…”

“No, you could not have known, or heard; it happened on the other side or the trees. You might have felt, though.”

As Severus thinks about it, he understands what Daere insinuates. “Indeed, it was rather a cruel Winter.”

“Indeed,” She agrees.

Severus reaches out and takes the small crystal from the nymph’s palm. It is an unprocessed stone, most likely straight from the source somewhere deep in the forest, somewhere not even Severus has dared venture yet. Its pitch black colour seems to swallow even that small amount of light that manages to pierce through the clouds. It feels rather light on his palm, much like basalt, but he knows that is not where his gift has come from.

He looks up at the woman, who watches him intrigued and slightly… smug. “I gather you know what to do with that.” She asks smiling.

“I gather,” Severus answers slowly with a roll of his eyes, “it is not to be drunk.”

“Oh no,” she laughs boomingly, her sound shaking the leaves on the trees. “When the pain is too great, you can rub this against his skin. It will help. The tourmaline is the utmost protection I can give him. Beyond this, only the children will be able to help him.”

Severus does not know what to say. He knows the risks Daere is taking with this chat, he knows Camus’ men are probably watching them from somewhere right now. And still all he can utter is a sincere, “Thank you,” though he knows it is not nearly enough.

Daere nods her huge head and is about to turn around when Severus speaks again. “Ine told me, that his death will be the trigger. Do you maybe know, what that could mean? Can there be a timed effect on the curse perhaps?”

Daere looks over her shoulder and laughs again thought the sound that comes out of her mouth is not in the least cheerful. “Not all evil is a mastermind, Severus Snape. Some act on impulses, I am afraid. I do not know what Ine has meant by that, but I doubt the curse is more than what it is: a slow mean to kill. However, you, of all people, should know what one murder does to the soul. One who kills once, even if for the good reason, has lesser problem killing again, especially if they believe the cause demands more sacrifice. The first kill, however, is the hardest of them all.”

“I understand.”

Severus watches as the woman slowly morphs into a bear and stalks away, disappearing between bushes and trees. He sighs deeply, the stone in his hand suddenly much heavier.

**o.O.o**

After breakfast, Harry is standing in the doorway, looking at the ground all but shy. He does not want to go, but he knows he has to. He does not want to leave Snape here on his own. He does not want to be without Snape. The feeling is so strange; it makes him more confused than his cursed body. Letting go of his fears from the past has been liberating, but he cannot stop wondering if it will hold even after he leaves. What if the moment he is out of the door all this will shatter?

He looks up and heavy black eyes bore into his. “Promise me you will come back when your symptoms worsen.” Snape says strictly.

Harry nods but something like fear corners his heart. “ _Only then?_ _”_ He scribbles into the air between them. His letters fade quickly, much quicker than usual, as if he is uncertain whether he should have written them or not.

Snape moves closer, looming over Harry, his height all but threatening. He cups Harry’s chin in his palm and leans down, his black eyes never leaving the green ones. “Or any moment of any day,” he whispers before his soft lips envelope Harry’s.

Smiling, Harry kisses back. “I’ll come,” he whispers into Snape mouth, not sure if he will be understood at all. Then he turns around and apparates away.

His legs barely touch the ground of his own apartment, he turns towards the fireplace and grabs a fistful of Floo Powder. Green fire lights up in the heart of the hearth as he throws the powder in there calling for Ron’s home nonverbally. He kneels down and sticks his head through the emerald flames.

He knows if Ron or Hermione are at home, they have already been alerted that someone attempted to come through their Floo. Hence he is not surprised that soon he hears footsteps then two fluffy slippers shuffle into his view. Seconds later, accompanied by a groan Ron is kneeling in front of his fire, face lit up with relief and happiness that he sees his friend.

“Harry!” He greets the other Gryffindor. “Come over. Hermione just finished brewing tea. And we have some news for you.”

_“_ _So do I,_ _”_ Harry writes in the ashes then scoots through the flames. Spinning for what feels like ages makes his stomach dizzy, then the Floo System spits him out at Ron’s apartment.

Ron helps him up then brushes the dust and ash off him, quite motherly, Harry thinks. “So mate, what happened?” He asks, his blue eyes looking over Harry’s features searching for any signs of the curse or the nonexistence of it.

Sadly, Harry shakes his head. “ _It_ _’_ _s still in me. Let_ _’_ _s sit down and I_ _’_ _ll tell you guys everything._ _”_

Holding on to Hermione’s fine china, which is warm with tea makes it easier to write, yet some things are still hard to put into words.

_“_ _I am dying_ _”_ is one of them. Ron takes the news calmly, though Harry can tell there is a storm in his best friend. Hermione starts crying. It is hard to watch as she buries her face in her palm and sobs. It takes her less than five minutes to collect herself, after which she already has a book about forest Nymphs and other Spirits in her lap that she is paging through while Ron informs Harry about what they had discovered during the weekend.

“We think, we might have figured out who cursed you, but it’s really weird, so we’re not really sure.” Ron starts. “We thought it must have been someone at work, during training, where you got hit by loads of spells. Otherwise, you would have noticed if any spell, especially one this serious knocks into you, right? For this, I’m sorry but I had to tell Kingsley what’s going on. I needed special clearance to look into everyone’s files. I started with the people we usually train with, then we went through the whole Auror Department. It led nowhere,” he sighs disappointed. “But we were sure it has to be someone within the Department, who else could get into our trainings and hit you with a spell. So we kept looking. We were there yesterday afternoon, when we met Jose. Remember him, the old bloke with the long beard that rivals Dumbledore’s? He was there cleaning the office. So he comes to me and says, Auror Weasley have you heard from Auror Graham recently? I promised some books to her but I haven’t seen her. She said she really needed them and I have them on me, if you could pass them to her, I would be really grateful. We said yes, of course and he went off to start his shift. Hermione immediately looked into the books, you know her,” Ron grins and earns an elbow in his ribs. “Luckily for us. Because this was one of the books,” he points now at the one Hermione is reading, who holds it up for Harry to see the title clearly.

“Funny isn’t it…” Ron remarks sternly, without even the hint of finding anything funny in the situation. “A day after you send us the letter about seeing nymphs and everything at Snape’s place, someone at the office is looking for books about the same topic. So we looked into Auror Graham’s file once again.”

“This is where it gets all weird,” Hermione takes over, closing the book and caressing it for a moment with the palm of her hand. “She is one of the top ten Aurors. She finished first in her class. She has always been an ally of Dumbledore and Kingsley. She is very vocal about supporting Muggle protection laws, and the equality of Werewolves and other sentient half-breeds. She fought against Thicknesse when he was in charge, and quit being an Auror during those times, but never quit the fight against Voldemort. She got a medal actually, for fighting off a horde of vicious vampires in the north with only a small group of other wizards. Let’s just say, she is one of the good guys.”

She puts her hand up the air and summons a piece of paper which she hands over the Harry to look at.

It is a picture Harry presumes about Auror Graham.

“Emily Petra Graham born in Birmingham in 1976, first and only daughter of Petra and William Graham.” Hermione introduces the woman on the picture. She is cute, Harry thinks to himself. There is something warm and sincere in the way she smiles at the camera. She looks a lot younger than her age. Her brown hair is tied into a loose ponytail on the back of her head and hangs over her shoulder. She is wearing her Auror uniform and Harry suspects the picture was taken on the day of her initiation. There is a kind of proud happiness all over her face, that makes her a thousand times more beautiful then how she would look during their meetings, where Harry met her almost every week.

“She came in sometimes with her son,” Ron says musing. “I remember the kid. He got lost once and wandered into my cubicle. Turned out, he’s a Chudley fan; I guess the posters attracted him.”

Harry looks at them both, then back at the woman. He wants to say just because someone is interested in forest spirits does not mean they would curse and eventually kill the national hero.

“I know what you want to say,” Hermione speaks again before he could. “She is too good. Her background is perfect. She is a kind, gentle person. We discarded her as well. We went to Kingsley to ask about her so we can deliver her the books.”

“You won’t believe this…” Ron mutters, sighing deep as if he still would not believe it.

“She has not come to work in nearly a month. She asked for personal time at first, then after two weeks sent a letter saying that she can’t come in for a while. Given her perfect record they were lenient with her and let her take an indefinite leave. During her last day, she participated in a training session. We know this because we talked to her partner, Auror Nina Tucker, who remembered the day clearly, because of one thing: that was the first day someone managed to knock out Auror Harry Potter with a spell.”

“Guess who sent the spell…” Ron grunts shaking his head.

“Emily Graham,” Harry mouths looking at the picture once again. Emily looks back at him, her radiant smile unfaltering.

**o.O.o**

They talk it over and over during the whole afternoon much like when they were children however they do not come closer to the solution just by talking about it. The underlying threat of Harry’s death is not forgotten just thrust into the back of their minds as a new mystery has presented itself to the Golden Trio once again.

_“_ _I wasn_ _’_ _t the target here,_ Harry writes in the air where all of them can read it. _Ine and the others were. But why curse me to get to them?_ _”_

“It feels like a cry for help,” Hermione tries uncertain. “Maybe she wanted someone to stop her, to pay attention to her actions.”

“Why?” Ron asks back not convinced. “She cursed Harry a month ago and kidnapped the nymphs only now. Why did she wait? Why did she curse Harry in the first place? This whole mess makes no sense. What did she achieve with it? Nothing.”

Not nothing, Harry thinks to himself. He ended up going to Snape, finally moving over past insults. Thanks to Emily, Harry and Severus are closer now than ever. One day, he will have to thank her for that. Unless she does end up killing him, of course.

Hermione seems deep in her thoughts for a couple of minutes as if thinking through all possible explanations all at once. She looks up morose, her eyes moving slowly between Ron and Harry, however before speaking up again, she opens one of the books Emily was supposed to receive.

Exchanging an eyeroll, Ron and Harry waits patiently. They both know she just needs to check something to make sure her statements are backed up by evidence.

“She did achieve something. Harry went to Snape. The only person probably who knows exactly what that curse was and how to cure it. But that makes no sense. She cursed Harry hoping to go to Snape who could cure him? Right? No sense in there. Unless… You were right Harry, she did not _want_ you dead. You are just… collateral damage.” She looks up, apologizing for her wording.

“It says here,” she points at the book in her lap, “that nymphs are only magical when they are in their human forms. When in their original form, their fur is fur, their blood is blood, their leaves are just leaves. But when they take their human form, that’s when you need to collect whatever ingredient you seek. Healing herbs has been collected from tree nymphs for ages, we even have a National Reserve for them in Ireland. We protect them from Muggles and other dangers and they give us leaves and berries which strive with magical attributes. Animal nymphs, Ine’s kind, are not as kind and tender. They do not want to work with wizards. Ingredients from an animal nymph is harder to get than unicorn blood, and therefore modern wizarding medicine has stirred away from using them; we found other substitutes. But still, there are potions that rely on them to work. Snape tried all the alternatives, but a strand of nymph’ hair is the only thing that would help you.”

“Yes, Hermione, we know this,” Ron interrupts. “But that still does not answer why she cursed _Harry_ , of all people.”

“Because someone had to go to Snape. Because Snape had to look into the curse. Because Snape is the only person who interacted with the nymphs before all this.”

Harry shakes his head but before he can lift his wand, Hermione speaks up again. “Let me finish,” she asks. When the other two nods, she goes on. “Severus wouldn’t have done this for anyone else. It had to be Harry Potter, otherwise Severus Snape would not have moved a finger. That’s why Harry is the one with a curse. Why not Snape? By the time he notices that something isn’t alright, it might be too late and he might not be able to finish the cure. That’s a risk she’s not willing to take, understandably. And why did she have to curse someone in the first place? Because she doesn’t know which animals to kidnap. They are not magical unless they show their true form, right. You said Neirin’s mom saw a sad woman coming to the forest for many days. She was looking for the nymphs. She saw the animals but didn’t know which one was Ine and which just a regular deer. And I bet you a thousand galleons, that all through those weeks, she saw something else as well. A man, roaming the forest untouched, unharmed, never encountering wolves or bears unless that was what he was looking for. She suspected the forest lived in harmony with Snape, wouldn’t be the first time, really. As long as you respect the forest, it will help you. Camus would never help her, a stranger, but they might help Severus. Then she cursed you, knowing sooner or later your illness would get to Snape who would help you given your past. And for that, he would need to ask help from the forest. The moment Ine and the others showed themselves to you, she knew exactly which animals to take. And so, she took them. What I don’t know, is why didn’t she kill them yet.”

“Because she’s not a killer,” Ron says, pointing at the picture of Emily Graham. “It’s not that easy you know. Charlie and George were laughing at me for not being able to kill a chicken the other week. All I had to do was to behead it. You fought against Voldemort, they said. Yeah, but I never killed anyone. It’s hard to end a life, especially with your own hands. And I guess, if she wants to kill them, a simple spell won’t do it. These things are usually done as a ritual. It strengthens the magic, or something.”

_“_ _My death will be the trigger,_ _”_ Harry writes the sentence in the air, his letters pulsing deep red. “ _This is what Ine meant. As long as I am alive, she probably won_ _’_ _t kill, she is too afraid. Severus was right, once I die, she sinks to a place so dark, killing nymphs won_ _’_ _t be a problem for her any longer._ _”_

“Her soul will be broken forever. But why? Surely not for money,” Hermione breathes, the idea of shattering a soul brings a cold shudder over her body.

She is still holding the book in her lap, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the corner of the pages, until suddenly, her eyes move from the setting sun outside the window and turn to the volume on her legs. “Why don’t we just ask her?” She asks simply.

“Ask her what?” Ron snorts. “Oh hello, Auror Graham, could you please tell us why you want our best friend dead? Just curious, is all. Or what?”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head all serious. “Jose gave us these books to deliver. We know where she lives. I say, tomorrow morning we do just that. Deliver these books and ask her why she is so interested in Nymph Magic.”

**o.O.o**

On his way back, Harry does not take the Floo, but instead apparates. It is after all quicker and less dizzying, even if just so. When finally at home and alone, he walks to the kitchen to prepare some quick dinner. He is not that hungry, his appetite lost after the conversation with his friends about Emily Graham.

The name brings forth the image of the woman. So happy and positive. Beautiful in her own way, natural and simply good. What has made that pure girl turn into the cruel woman who would turn towards the Dark Arts and curse people, not to mention killing innocent children. A part of him wants to seek her out right away and demand answers the other however is afraid of what they might learn tomorrow.

If the Dark Arts can lure away good people like her what future awaits the wizarding community? After all, she has been fighting against evil all her life and yet in the end, she chose the darker path for some reason? What could the reason be, Harry wonders as he spreads some butter on his toast.

He dips the knife in the raspberry jam and spoons out a good batch, but the preserve never reaches the toast.

As the coughing seizure hits him, he bends over the sink, unable to breathe for a second. The knife clatters loudly as it hits the metal, the toast however falls almost silently. Like blood, the jelly streams slowly down into the pipe. But not all of it; some gets smeared as Harry palms into it, fighting for precious air.

It feels like an hour, but he knows it cannot be more than minutes. When his lungs feel clear again, and the black miasma stops blocking his air passages, he finally opens his mouth again. He does not remember when he collapsed, but he is on his knees and the ground beneath him is covered with that strange darkness Snape collected in his mason jars as well. He does not dare think about how much more of that stuff is still in his system. Instead, he just grabs some paper towels and cleans up the mess he made.

He feels strangely weak as he tosses the damp paper into the bin and almost misses, too. He washes his hands and the cool water feels so good, he decides, he will just take a cold shower.

When he emerges from the bathroom, the seizure feels like a bad memory, or even just a faded nightmare. His muscles are strong again, the cold water revived even his mind.

He does not find his place in his own house. Grimmauld Place feels foreign to him as he walks into his bedroom. He looks around knowing he is missing something. When he realizes what, he breaks into a swift walk and storms down, back into the kitchen. The green flames are barely alive in the fireplace, he is stepping through them.

The Sanctuary smells of bergamot. He is slightly dizzy, however he draws strength from that familiar scent. There is not a single candle lit in the kitchen yet there is some light seeping in from the living room. He can faintly see the green cupboards and the black table; the light just enough so he does not fall over the furniture. He follows the source of brightness out of the kitchen and stops at the white door full of windows.

There are candles lit in the living room, some floating in the air, the others stuck to the table by the streaming wax on their sides. Severus is reading three books at the same time, paging one, then turning to the other, while the third sits patient in his lap. There are pages upon pages all around, most on the table, but some fell on the ground, others were surely tossed there, as they lie all crumpled now.

Through the windows, Harry watches the man, who is still oblivious to his presence as he ruffles through some worn pages in the book in his lap. Then he straightens up a bit, pushing his reading glasses over to his forehead, rubbing his tired eyes. Yawning, he resumes to reading shortly, making notes onto a parchment as he bends over the table.

Harry pushes down the handle and the door opens, squeaking. Snape looks up, but there is no alarm on his feature.

“Potter?” He asks surprised looking at Harry over the brim of his glasses. “What are you doing here?”

He stands, taking the glasses off and Harry does not understand why he is so fascinated with them. He steps inside the living room and walks closer, his steps unhurried. Snape is almost frowning at him for his silence, yet Harry would not pull out his wand. He would not know what to say anyways, so he just keeps on stepping closer. He is not sent away, Snape just rolls his eyes and holds a hand out for him.

“Are you alright?” Snape queries quietly as they sit down. Parchments and books levitate away to give place for Harry, who lies down without any further prompting. He nods as he lies his head in Snape’s lap. His smile is reassuring as well. He senses the other man’s hesitation, but then gentle fingers slither into his hair, caressing him softly.

“I have some research to do…” Severus says but his left hand is not leaving Harry’s head, he does not indicate in any way he wants Harry to leave. So Harry stays and soon he feels his glasses being removed, and a blanket covering him from neck to toe. He only realizes his eyes were closed when he opens them.

He only sees blotches of colours, black and pale white and a twinkle of light as the glass reflects the light of the candles. The smell of bergamot is much stronger here, even though he did not see any cups. Maybe it comes from Snape, he wonders, but in all honestly he does not care. He just enjoys it.

He turns to his side and places a hand onto Snape’s leg.

He does not say a word all night. He does not mention the coughs, the blood, the black magic. He leaves Emily Graham alone for now. Because just for a moment, he wants to believe everything is alright. For a single night, he wants to pretend life is normal and so is falling asleep next to the man, he once hated. Just for this night, he forgets about Forest Spirits and Nymphs and thinks about all the things they could do if these would not be his last days, because deep down he knows they are.

Just for tonight, he lets the scent of bergamot lull him into sleep.


	10. A Mother’s Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, a new chapter? Can it be true? After all this time? Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you! It's been a rough time and with work and everything, I dont have as much time for writing as I'd like. Other stories sometimes gained highlight, while this waited in the back. I didnt know where to go with Indian, but now that it settled down a bit, I think I know how it will all end. Which means, I'm ready to go on. So here you go, a whole new chapter :) Hope you will enjoy it!

It is way past midnight, when his eyes finally tire enough so he needs to stop. His extensive readings on nymph magic has been useless regarding the possible location of the captured children, however it has been rather educational on many other topics. The power of these little beings amaze him. As these creatures are hard to find, even harder to capture at the right phase of the moon, and it is almost impossible to do this before they reach adulthood, the Wizarding World has never paid much attention to their magical attributes. Nor did he during most of his life. Though of course there has been researches made, most date back to times, where wizard and witches were hunted. Most of the books are crammed with information about tree nymphs, those provide nothing new to him as he knows this, the subject being taught at school, covered both in Potions and Herbology. He himself had tested many generations of dunderheads on this, even the one who is resting his head on his lap right now.

But nearly none of the recent studies give any information on animal nymphs, and the ones that do only recite it from old scrolls, found in the dustiest corners of the oldest libraries. Luckily, Severus has still access to one of these old libraries, and Minerva would never deny him anything when it comes to saving his favourite young man. Which is how Severus now has all this old parchment full of lures and legends that may or may not be true, lying in front of him.

One needs a sharp mind and a critics eye to find the seeds of truth beneath the jungle of tales the old witches and wizards believed in. Severus has both, however it is still hard to see through the many legends that surround Ine’s kind.

Naiads, that is their name, at the least the little group that lives here fits into that classification. They are mainly guarding and nurturing the environment near lakes and rivers. Other species can be found near meadows, on mountains, or even underwater. Though Naiads, and all other classes of nymphs, are hard to find, they are the core of nature, nurturing the trees and flowers to their full potential. Camus, as king of this group, must be the one responsible for protecting the lake near Severus' home, because fresh water is indispensable for fostering life.

Given their nurturing habit, their magic has similar tendencies. It brings life, it takes care of illnesses, it heals injuries so that life can prevail. Though older nymphs still carry some magic in them, it fades in comparison to the power that rages in young life.

Some scrolls say that all nymphs answer to a higher power, but none describes who or what it might be. No one has witnessed it before, the only information he finds in one yellow parchment is rather cryptic, and its sense is up to one’s own interpretation. It talks about an entity, who travels by sound, talks through music and lives in Spring. The same scroll however also talks about different kind of gibberish, like a magical creek which flows thorough all lifeforms, all the seasons being an actual person and other children’s tales, Severus finds not just ridiculous but also an insult to the tree, which gave its life for this rubbish to be written on it.

He fiddles with his glasses as he stares blindly at the one single parchment he managed to fill with his small scrawny letters. Given he had more than thirty scrolls and three heavy tomes, that is not much useful information, and as none of it points at where these children could be right now, he feels as if the last couple of hours has been more than simply useless.

He slips from beneath Potter and conjures a thick blanket to tuck in the man, before he walks to the glass door that leads to his backyard. He slips outside, and shivers wildly, not expecting the almost winterish cold that welcomes him there. To think that only two weeks ago he had been out in the forest in nothing but a thin shirt collecting ingredients and now it seems even the weather has turned against him.

He sits down in the small loveseat and pulls his legs up to his chest. The soft pillows behind him turn the cold couch into a rather cosy nest and he furrows himself deeper into it. How many nights during the summer had he fallen asleep here to the sounds of crickets playing their little violins in the wet grass? How many times had he lie awake staring at the star filled sky? Now, he can do none of that. The sky above him is dark, the crickets are silenced. He cannot see the hills or the forest as the clouds and the hostile darkness drinks up all the light the slim moon would provide. The only reason he knows where the forest would start is because red eyes watch him from among the line of trees, their stare glinting dangerously even through the thick rain. He faintly hears growling, or perhaps it is only his imagination playing tricks on him.

It must be the last as he seems to notice something else as well. A shadow travels swiftly through the rain, almost like a snake slithering on the ground. But this wraith moves on legs, it hops hastily from pumpkin to pumpkin, ducks under vines, sneaks under bushes, however leaves the twigs untouched. Its steps make no noise. Severus would be apprehensive by the approaching shade, has he not known it for years.

“Where have you been?” He inquires and the orange tabby cat purrs even before he jumps up onto the loveseat and climbs into his lap. “I even put some bacon out for you.”

Louder purring is the only answer before the cat licks his mouth.

“Bacon, I would imagine, is the only word you understand. Or perhaps, you comprehend everything I say, just ignore it all,” wonders Severus half aloud.

The cat does not open his mouth, though the yellow eyes watch Severus as if the cat would speak up any second. Instead, he starts cleaning his fur, licking his pink toes, his back, his chest, everything he can reach. Suddenly, he looks up at Severus, sneezes, then starts scratching himself.

“If you bring fleas into my house, I swear to Merlin, I will skin you.”

“Meow,” comes the answer in an ignorant tone and Severus huffs.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

The cat stays quiet and resumes his bathing. Severus just watches him until he lifts his wand and touches it to the middle of the cat’s bushy, wet head.

“ _Calidusaer_ ,” he whispers the incantation and fast, warm air brushes the cat from the tip of his ears to the end of his tail, drying him completely. He meows indignantly, protesting against the sudden draft of magical air, but in vein. It is already all over, his fur is soft, warm and dry.

He stares up at Severus, yellow eyes glinting in anger.

“What,” says the wizard, smirking. “You were wet and in my lap. Do not tell me, you expected anything else.”

The animal does the cat equivalent of a shrug: he yawns and stretches out. It seems Severus is quickly forgiven when the cat brushes against his hands, begging for some petting. Severus complies with a sigh.

They sit like that for several minutes listening to the constant tapping of the rain, the only sound nowadays that can be heard. “I never gave you a name…” Severus says all of a sudden.

The orange tabby cat looks up at him, his yellow eyes questioning.

“They say, if you name something, you become attached. I never wanted to become attached.”

He is not sure whether he talks to the animal in his lap, or to the man in the doorway.

Green dots appear in the dark air in front of him and shine bright green like the eyes that haunt his dreams. “ _It is too late now, isn_ _’_ _t it?_ ” Form the tiny, firefly-like dots in the air.

Potter sits beside him, covering them both in the blanket. The cat slips inside through the open door, and Severus knows he will not stop until he is resting on Severus’ bed.

“It is,” he answers. “It is always too easy to get attached to the good things.”

Fingers trace his thigh under the thick blanket. He looks up at Potter. He only raises an eyebrow as the fingers move lower and lower. Before he could say something, Potter is in his lap, straddling him, lips descend onto his mouth, speaking of attachment, and telling alluring tales and much more.

“You are going to get cold,” he breathes and that is the last thing said between them that night.

Potter does not say anything, no red lines shine up between them, no gleaming fireflies rise into the air. He only pulls the blanket over his back and presses himself more onto Severus. His kisses are sweet like ripe apples plucked from the trees, his touch gentle as the summer air that caresses a man’s face after a tiring, warm day.

Light kisses are stolen and Severus hugs the man closer to him, every touch between them is sweet and tender and slow as if they have the whole world to them. And perhaps they do. Perhaps for that night only, the world has stopped for them, the moon has ceased its endless run, the sun has decided to rest some more. Only the rain still drums on the roof over their head, relentless, like their kisses.

A hand fumbles between them and Potter pulls out his shirt, searching for soft skin to warm his cold hands. Severus groans softly when they touch him, a wild shiver runs through his body but the fingers do not stop. They sneak up beneath his shirt and graze a nipple, then slither down, caressing him lovingly.

The kisses never stop, their passion never withers, if anything it builds stronger with every feeble touch, every delicate caress of fingers and lips. They shiver and moan, gasp and whimper in a soundless world, which is only theirs for now.

He can feel on his wet lips the sharp exhale of warm breath as Potter skims his hardness with tentative fingers at first but when he realizes that his touch is not unwelcomed, on the contrary even, he becomes more brash right away. He presses his palm down harder and in response Severus holds him more firmly as well. His own hands wander restlessly on Potter’s back under his shirt, bathing in the warmness of the soft skin.

It is as if Severus has been muted as well, the darkness swallows his moans or maybe it is Potter who kisses him just at the right moments. The only whimper that manages to elope is the one that presses through when Potter rest his head against his forehead, his fingers digging under his pants and underwear, skimming his erection.

After that moment, it seems events become faster and the world ceases to exist all at the same times. His sense of time and reality is foggy like the night, yet he feels every touch on his manhood, every caress on his skin, every kiss on his lips. He does not know how but suddenly he is holding onto velvety skin, and Potter is squirming over him, his hips thrusting forward slightly, moving in a small circle, pulling back.

They do not feel the cold, nor the darkness. The sounds are there once again, and darkness stays away as long as they hold on to each other. Eyes closed they see the summer, bright and welcoming, they feel the heat of the sun on their skin. They move, shift lightly, hands grasping each other, they writhe, panting, melting against the other’s touch. They pull strength from their kisses as their arousals slide against each other between the strong hold of their hands. Wetness spreads on their fingers, thumbs slide, brush awkwardly from one tip over to the other and they keen in torturous pleasure.

Seasons change, winter comes and goes but they do not notice. They breathe in fresh desire, feed on warm touches, drink sweet kisses from the other’s lips and they prevail until summer greets them both, and the world blinks back into existence.

The rain falls heavily and the shadows are back as they rest against each other, but they see none of it. They lie down, never letting go of each other. They kiss goodnight before they tuck each other in, making sure there is not a nook open for the autumn cold to sneak in.

**o.O.o**

It is a strangely dark day. It is already past seven in the morning yet it feels like the sun did not rise yet. Its faint brightness is not enough to penetrate the thick clouds, which still pour rain over the small hills. The forest is strangely quiet as the usual morning trills are still absent. The silence brings an odd sense of anticipation, however not the good kind. Depression fills the air between the trees. Instead of the morning dew anxiety sticks to the wet leaves. The whole forest radiates hopelessness as if their fight would be already lost and as Harry watches it through the window, he feels is too.

He woke up to another cough seizure this morning, which was almost worse than the one last night. The black goo he spat out was almost enough to fill half a jar and, to make it even worse, it wasn’t entirely black. Harry did not have to look at it to know, he could taste the iron in his mouth. Severus on the other hand had noticed, yet kept quiet about the blood. The second one was way worse, but thankfully he was alone in the shower when that happened.

“Are you listening to me or have you gone deaf now, too?” Severus snaps and Harry turns his head from the dark forest, leaving behind a sense of dread.

Snape is holding out a plate, water drips from it to the ground. Harry takes it with an apologetic smile and dries it with the towel in his hand. He puts it back into the cupboard then turns back to the other man, who hands him a pan, followed by a nasty look.

“So as I was saying, are you sure you do not want me to go with you today? You do not know what Graham can be capable of. I could be of help.”

They have talked and talked during breakfast, both of them sharing the new information they have gathered, but the discussion did not bring peace to Harry’s restless mind.

He puts the pan back to its place as well then flicks his wand towards the water. Bubbles emerge from the froth and levitate upwards forming his answer.

_“_ _No_ _”_ _._ The N is made out of a lot of small ones, while the O is one big bubble. Somehow this makes him smile.

He is not sure how to say what he wants to; however, the way Snape avoids his gaze tells him the man already suspects what they have to talk about. What they _need_ to talk about. There are no more dishes left from their breakfast and Severus is leaning against the counter, staring at the bubbles in front of him. Slowly, as if he would not be completely aware of his action, he lifts an arm and clatches the bubbles between his fingers. They burst immediately and so does the pretence serenity between them. Severus finally looks him dead in the eyes.

“How long have you been coughing up blood as well?” He asks quietly.

_“_ _Two times this morning. The seizures started last night though._ _”_ He answers honestly. His red letters in the air shine for a couple of seconds before they fade out slowly.

“Why did you not say something?”

_“_ _Because you cannot do anything about it, Snape. Because it does not really matter anymore._ _”_

“Of course it does!” Snape cries angry.

Harry stays calm, though it should be him shouting. “ _It does not. Even if we find Ine and the others, if my health deteriorates this rapidly, I won_ _’_ _t live to see the next full moon. You know that as well as I do._ _”_

“Don’t say that Potter,” hisses Severus, all but threatening. “Do _not_ say that!” He shouts as he turns to Harry, his dark eyes all but begging him to stop talking about things like that. But Harry knows that some things needs to be spoken.

_“_ _We have to be ready. If I die, she is going to kill the children. There won_ _’_ _t be anything holding her back anymore._ _”_

Severus brushes away the letters in the air with a swift jerk of his hand. “I am not willing to listen to this!” Unnaturally chill air spreads through the kitchen, making Harry shiver. There is something dangerously determined in Snape as he says, “I do not care what I have to do to keep you alive, but I will do it.” With that, he turns and storms out of kitchen straight to the pouring rain.

Harry’s frustrated groan comes out soundlessly, yet he does not even notice it. He is shouting after Snape as if his muteness would not be the very core of their problem. “Stubborn idiot! You better not do anything stupid!”

Another groan later, he is storming out of the kitchen as well. He does not have to look for Snape for long, though. The moment he steps out of the door, long fingers grab his arm and he is pulled aside vehemently, just as some ripe, huge pumpkin smashes against the door – just at the spot where his head was only a moment ago.

Safe and sound between Snape’s arms, he looks up to see where the hostile vegetable came from. He is surprised to discovered that it was not even aimed at him. Instead, the giant bullet was apparently meant for Camus.

The King of the forest rears furiously, hitting a giant bear in the back with his front legs. The bear, huge like a mountain, crawls a few meters away, and Camus towers over her, his paws digging into the muddy ground. Allister and Eames are circling around the two animals, growling rabidly. They are also keeping an eye on Severus and turn their dagger like fangs at him every time he tries to move.

There is no doubt in Harry regarding who the bear is. This must be Daere, Nuada’s mother.

The stag bows his head and pins the injured bear against the grass. The tip of his antler disappears in the thick fur and Daere cries out in pain. Severus and Harry move at the same time and rush to her aid. Harry slams his body against the stag, sending him staggering. Camus falls to the ground, however he is quick to regain his footing. Harry is swift as well though, and he has his wand in hand already. He takes care of Eames first, sending a stunning spell right between his gleaming yellow eyes.

Allister attacks, baring his fangs at Harry. His fur is wet and muddy, but it is blood that gleams on his face. Harry’s pumpkin is better aimed and it knocks Allister right off his paws with such force, he slides almost a meter in the slippery mud. He does not get up so Harry can finally focus all his attention to Camus, but it is too late. He is tossed aside like a ragdoll, and the sudden pain is burning his right side. He lands at the feet of Snape’s clematis bushes; their white flowers descend on him like snowflakes. He pushes himself up from the ground, shivering as the mud-soaked clothes touches his skin. The pain in his right side intensifies, but he closes it out as it registers in his mind what his eyes see.

Severus is trying to drag the injured bear towards the house, shouting encouraging words through the thundering rain. Both of their backs are to the galloping stag, who is moving closer and closer swiftly, his head down, ready to pierce through Severus’ body with one easy strike.

Everything registers in Harry in just that one long second. His own wand lying half buried in mud several feet away; the sound of Allister and Eames’ painful whining; the blood darkening the bear’s fur; her deep brown, half lidded eyes with only a hint of light in them by now; the way the mud splutters everywhere when Camus’ feet touches the wet ground, and the threatening rhythm of that fast drumming as he reaches closer and closer wanting to slash into soft flesh.

He can feel his throat getting tighter and tighter, then as if he has just lost his hearing as well as his voice, the world suddenly goes numbingly silent. He knows another seizure is coming but he does not let it take over.

He pushes himself from the bottom of the bush and lurches towards his wand. The stubbing pain in his right side is gone for now, he does not feel anything just the familiar warmness as his fingertips touch the holly wand.

“ _Impedimenta_!” he screams on the top of his lungs and suddenly something bursts inside him, like a bubble – the same perhaps that has kept the whole world silent up until now, because he hears again and the first thing he is aware of hearing is his own voice. He barely recognizes it given he has not used it in weeks, it is croaked and almost alien, but it _is_ his voice, he knows it.

The blue light breaks out of the wand right away and flies straight against Camus. It does not just stop him, but the force of the magic knocks him against one of the apple trees. There is a nasty crack and it does not come from the tree.

Panting, Harry lies in the mud. Severus is motionless as well, only the rain falls still relentlessly. They are looking at each other in the grey light of the morning sun. None of them really believes what just happened.

Scared that maybe he just imagined things, Harry pushes himself up, and the pain is immediately back in his right side. He cries out, clutching a hand against it. Hoarse, but there is a sound again, perfectly audible even through the tapping raindrops. Then, braver by every second, he casts some different healing charms on himself, all perfectly audible. Minutes go by and he barely moves, letting the magic freely curse through his body, mending his broken ribs and healing his bruised skin. He just lies there, face on the ground, watching Severus as he is also casting a more complicated healing spell on the woman, who lies at his feet. Through the black curtains of his hair, he occasionally looks at Harry with astonishment in his dark eyes.

When the pain ebbs away, Harry stands up. He is covered in mud but he could not be happier. He wipes his hands in his pants, which barely does any good and wand in hand walks closer to the groaning King of the forest.

“If you turn into a human, I can heal you,” he croaks at the straggling stag.

Behind him, the two wolves finally gathered enough strength to stand up and edge closer, still growling, but obviously in pain. Before they could attack though, Camus sheds his animal form.

“Why would you help me?” He groans. His beautiful face is disfigured by the pain. His leg is twisted in a way that makes Harry almost sick up.

“If you haven’t noticed that is the only thing we have been trying to do all along.” He snaps impatient. He can sense the seizure still lurking around, feel the black miasma gathering in his lungs, but he holds on still. He breathes shallow and avoids looking at the broken leg. “Now get your dogs off my back, so I can concentrate on healing you, will you?”

With one motion of his hands, Camus stops Allister and Eames. “You can talk. How did you get better?”

“I didn’t. At least I think I didn’t. The dark magic is still in me, but it isn’t concentrated in my lungs and throat anymore; it is spreading everywhere else.” Harry answers as he kneels next to the man. He carefully places a hand on the broken leg. Camus growls at him, but he ignores his patient. He closes his eyes and starts chanting a healing spell. Slowly, he can feel the bone move back to its place – the sensation more sickening than reassuring at that moment.

Camus however, shortly sighs relieved. When Harry is done, he tries to stand, placing just enough weight on his injured leg not to strain it, then more and more until he stands tall again. Harry turns around looking at the two men behind him. They are leaning on each other for support though there is no sign of injury on them. There is still blood mixed with the rain on Allister’s face, but Harry knows it is not his own.

He looks around, searching for Severus and the bear, but they both disappeared. Severus must have taken Daere inside.

“Why did you attack her?” Harry asks coldly.

“She was helping you, knowing she is acting against my will,” Camus replies angry.

“She was helping her son, you fool,” thunders Severus behind them. “And with that your daughter as well. How many needs to die before you realize we are all tying to help Ine and the other children?”

Harry spins around. The icy cold breeze of Severus’ magic reaches him way before the man does. It is hostile and aggressive, almost cruel.

“What…What do you mean die…?” Allister stutters stepping back slightly. He is looking towards the house, but of course he cannot see inside.

“She’s dead,” Severus states coldly.

Eyes wide, Harry watches him, but Severus does not look his way. He is staring at Allister, who is standing there looking lost. The rain already washed away most of Daere’s blood from his face but there are still dark traces of it on his chin and throat.

Heart clenching, Harry watches the wolf too, who seems to be in shock. His sky blue eyes seem empty as he stares at Severus in the pouring rain.

“Dead?” He echoes, his deep voice broken. “We did not… I did not…” He looks at his twin for help, but Eames is watching their King with something close to hatred in his flashing yellow eyes. “I just wanted to slow her down…” Allister moans as he sinks to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

“Keep that in mind the next time you sink your fangs in someone’s throat,” spats Severus at him.

“Silence human!” Eames snarls. “She knew the consequences of talking to you. She betrayed our king.”

“With trying to help find your princess?” Harry asks. “Daere knew she can trust Snape. Ine knows she can trust Snape. When will you accept that and help us instead of unreasonably killing innocents?”

“How could you know who my daughter trusts, human?” Camus booms and the forest all but echoes his anger.

Harry grabs Severus left and shows his new mark to the King. The twins share a look of utter surprise but Camus just shakes his head. “Are you telling me Ine’s mark means nothing to you? Your daughter has chosen him; why do you not trust Ine’s decisions?” Harry asks quietly.

“Ine is young and foolish. Her decisions must not to be trusted, yet.” Camus answers with ire in his tone.

To everyone’s surprise it is Allister who speaks out quietly, still kneeling on the ground. “You are willing to trust her with our forest in a couple of month, yet now you say she is but a child. Which is it then, my King? That mark is also my son’s. Should I not trust my son either?”

“My friend, would you really trust the humans?” Camus answers him gently kneeling next to him on the ground, as he places a hand on his shoulder. “Remember what they did to Asgre! Remember who has your son now! They are evil and vile creatures, Allister.”

But Allister shakes off the touch of his king and stands, taking unsteady, but determined steps towards Severus and Harry. “You are the one who made me kill one of our own. These two have never hurt anyone. They were not the ones who killed your wife, my king, and they are not holding our children in captivity either.”

Eames joins his brother as they both side with Harry and Severus. “These two tried to help. They healed you,” says Eames hesitant, waiting for any reasonable reply from his king.

“Do not be so gullible Eames, these humans only try to help because they need one of the children to cure that one,” Camus barks, pointing at Harry.

“That might have been true once, but your children cannot help me now. I needed a strand of human hair for one of them, but I won’t live to see the next full moon when they could change again. There is nothing that could help me, but together, we might be able to help them.”

“Look at the leaves, Camus,” says Severus quietly, holding out his left. “Yesterday this tree was full of leaves, now nearly half is gone. We barely have any time left. We have a suspicion whom might have taken them. We are willing to help, but this hostility needs to stop. One death was enough.”

Camus eyes them all for a few seconds then steps closer to Severus tentatively. He holds out a hand and slowly places his palm on the tattoo. The sigh that breaks up from his throat is warm, almost an affectionate whimper.

“I can feel them…” He breathes, his eyes closed. “I can feel our children.”

Snape grasps his forearm as well, and the two men look each other in the eyes. The storm is still there in Camus’ dark eyes, but it is not raging anymore. He calmed, much like the weather around them.

“You know where to find us, human.” He says tamely and lets go of Severus. He turns around as he says, “Allister, Eames! Come now.”

With a small nod, both wolves turn back to their animal form and briskly follow their king back to the forest.

“I guess I should head home,” Harry says as they turn back towards the house. “Ron and Hermione must be waiting for me already.”

“Yes, you should. I want to get to the end of this as soon as possible,” Snape answers, brushing his lower arm with his palm. “Listen,” he says then suddenly. “I have been wondering about this for a while… If Graham really kills all four of them… that is a lot of nymph hair and blood. But these ingredients… most potions require them fresh. It makes no sense to kill them all, unless…”

“Unless she already has a buyer?” Harry finishes.

“Indeed. Or buyers. I cannot imagine one person needing all these elements.” Severus sighs as he goes on. “I will ask around Knockturn Ally… maybe there is some talk about new nymph ingredients. I cannot just sit here idly while you are out there. However, if you need me, you know how to reach me.”

“If we get in any trouble, I’ll send my Patronus,” Harry promises smiling. “See you tonight?”

“Or as soon as you are finished,” says Snape. “And Potter,” he adds just as Harry is about to apparate away. “I have never thought hearing your insufferable voice would make me this pleased.” With three swift steps he is in front of Harry, kissing him with unexpected passion. “Take care of yourself out there. I haven’t given up on you yet, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry laughs as he kisses Snape goodbye. He looks up at the clearing sky just as the sun finally shows up from behind a cloud. As he turns on his heels, he hears something unexpected: deep in the forest, the birds are singing again.


	11. New Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello? Is anyone here? Is anyone still reading this? -_-

Severus looks over his shoulder and watches the orange tabby cat as he jumps up on the motionless female body and curls up into a ball. For seconds he contemplates shooing him away, but then decides against it. They look too peaceful to be disturbed as if it would be perfectly normal for domesticated cats to sleep on wild nymph bears, and the appearance of normality helps him control the anger he feels upon the recent events. He grabs a long coat and walks out into the cold forenoon.

He resented the missing sound of the chirping birds, detested the silence of the forest, and yet now that he hears it again, he finds it all but annoying. Have the birds been always so loud? Has the wind howled this thunderously? Branches break, giants walk among the trees, or perhaps it is just a squirrel running on the ground, he cannot decide anymore. The sky above him cleared, the grey clouds are gone, the sun beam giving its last effort to keep the summer, but fall’s clutches has arrived over the last couple of days and the ground froze where it walked. Nearly an hour ago, they were fighting on muddy ground and now it was solid as if time itself has frozen. And yet, that cannot be, the sun is higher now, the wind is blowing, the trees are dancing with it.

He looks around his little cottage, and sees only shadows from the recent past. The place he had once seen as bright is covered in them now, dark and vile, sneaking closer and closer. Nothing seems as he remembered as if the past week had shifted his reality into something new, something horrid.

He apparates away, but the place he arrives at is even more darker. The tall, old buildings of Knockturn Ally cover the sky from him. Witches lurk in every nook, hiding their faces under dark hoods. He passes them, ignoring their shady items, their angry hisses. He does not care whether he is recognized, and he could not care less that he does not fit in. He wears muggle clothes on purpose. Knockturn Alley is not the only place for the admirers of the Dark Arts.

A witch jumps in front of him, offering severed rat heads. A glare is enough to send her back into the darkness she came from. The man is harder to shake off, he follows Severus through many small alleys, hoping he would turn to a dead end and then… But Severus has walked these streets even as a teenager and he knows every cranny.

A window catches his eyes featuring potions in glimmering crystal vials. He recognizes Essence of Life, a green substance with hint of neon highlights used to bring life to any field, by draining it from somewhere else. Another right next to is a strong sedative; Mellow Death is given to anyone who suffers from unbearable pain. They are both highly illegal, of course, and Severus contemplates either mentioning it to Potter or buying the last for him for his last hours. He suspects it will be bad, and Potter would be grateful for the alleviated pain, yet the Mellow Death has a mind altering substance, which would cause him hallucination, and Severus would prefer to avoid that.

His legs carry him past the window and he shakes the thought out of his mind. He has the stone from Daere, which ought to help till a certain point, and beyond that there is nothing a potion or magic could do.

The rhythmic knocking of his boots on the cobblestone ricochet from the building and echo along the narrow, winding path he walks on. Shops upon shop offer darker substances and objects, cursed heirlooms to custom made wizarding robes for those who have more to hide than their body. But not all shops cater items of the Dark Arts. Many offer simple potions against insects or different pesticides, you would not find in a menagerie, or hard to find ingredients for Potioneers.

He stops under a sign which pictures a cauldron. Smoke is slowly slithering from it towards the wobbly roofs and a stirring rod is still twirling round and round, moved by invisible hands. The shop is everything but welcoming. The door is windowless, the windows are covered. There is no way to see inside and make sure, one does not step into the arms of Death itself. Most people avoids it hence, and this only proves how good the business actually is. Mister Mortimer only caters for those he knows.

Severus opens the door, the handle sticky beneath his fingers. As he steps over the threshold, he feels a line of magic, and soon hears a little bell tinkle somewhere in the depth of the house. An old man shuffles behind the counter, he has not changed a single bit in the past twenty years. Grey beard, grey hair and wrinkles – he consists of nothing else. He wears the same old robe every time Severus sees him, which is dirty enough that he wonders the man might not even have more than one set.

A monocular is raised and Mortimer gasps. “Hoi, is that you, Snape?” He cries, ducking under the counter. He does not have to bend low to fit.

“Yes, Mortimer,” Severus confirms as the tiny man hobbles to him arms reached out. They hug each other, Mortimer barely reaching Severus’ chest.

“Are you serving the darkest of them all now, or what?” He snaps, stepping back and placing his hands on his slim hips.

“I did not come here to reap your soul, old friend. I need information.”

“Well so do I,” Mortimer laughs. “Are you not dead, my boy?”

Severus sighs, “Do you not read the newspapers?”

“With eyes like this?” He points at the half blind, grey orbs. “Couldn’t read even if I wanted to, and I don’t even want to. To many complicated, foolish business going on there. Tea,” he offers.

“No, thank you,” Severus declines politely, but Mortimer’s eyes are not his only senses that do not work. He swishes an old wand, which is bent like he himself and Severus is presented with tea, then pushed down onto an old crate. He can feel something move inside. “Well, I am not dead,” he says at last. “At least not yet. Just keeping quiet.”

“Been a bad boy, eh?” Mortimer winks under bushy eyebrows. Something touches Severus' ankle.

“As always,” Severus promises with a boyish smile.

“Knee-deep in some crazy business again, right boy, that’s why you visited old Mortimer?”

“Indeed,” Severus confesses. Whoever has taken the crate as its home is now wriggling and scratching it. 

“And I thought you missed me…” The old man laughs, then swiftly kicks the box. It quiets. “Now, out with it, what do you need and who’s dying now? The last time it was that old fool, wasn’t he? Dumbledore. I know how that ended...”

Severus sips into his tea; a herbal mix, Mortimer’s own batch. “I would be interested in some nymph ingredients.”

Mortimer jumps up right away, searching through crates and boxes. “Leaves, trunks, roots, twigs, berries? Narrow it down or we will be here till sunset.”

Gulping hard, Severus answers coolly, “Heart, blood, hair... All of them innocent.”

Mortimer stops and walks closer, furrowing his grey eyebrows, which Severus only knows because now they look even bushier. “Now, I don’t know what you got yourself into, son, but my business is not that kind of trade. I might deal with Dark Magic, but I would not go even near the stuff you are looking for. That is evil,” he adds quietly. “You should leave now.”

“It is not for me…” Severus starts but he is interrupted.

“It never is, my son. It never is.” Mortimer says unhappily.

“Four innocent nymphs were taken from the forest near my home. I am trying to find them,” explains Severus.

“Well, they are certainly not here.” Mortimer sulks.

“I know that,” reassures him Severus, then his smile is wiped off his face as a wet tongue licks his calf. “Whatever is in this box?!” He cries as he jumps up. The crate makes a scared whimper.

“You terrify it,” Mortimer yelps, then bends over the box, opening it slightly. “Look at this little creature, Snape, it’s just being friendly.”

“It licked me.” Severus objects.

“Dogs do that.”

Severus peers into the box and sees only white fluffy fur and a pink tongue. It might have some legs or maybe a tail, but it is hard to see due to all the fluffiness. “That cannot be a dog.”

Mortimer closes down the lid, but Severus does not risk sitting down again.

“Well…” Mortimer murmurs, rubbing his hands. “It’s almost a dog. I’m not sure what it is to be honest. A friend saved it from some hunters. Temmie is good boy… or girl… it’s just a bit too enthusiastic.” There are more whimpers coming from the box. This time less scared and more needy. Whether it wants food, water or a severed limb, Severus is not sure.

“Why did they hunt it?”

Mortimer taps the box lightly and the cries quiet down. Now it is only panting inside. “Apparently, its saliva is euphoric. Mix one ounce with some squished water sausage and add some crushed sunflower seeds and you will be laughing the rest of your life.”

“Interesting…” Severus notes, watching the box and the little pink tongue being wiggled through one of the venting holes.

“This little thing could make a Dementor laugh itself to death, I tell you.” Mortimer sighs. “But could you keep it in captivity? It even hurts me to see it locked in here during the day but I cannot put it elsewhere... So I take it home with me every day. Keeps me good company.”

“Mortimer,” Severus says thoughtful. “The hunters… how do they know what kind of animal to look for?”

“Oh, I’m sure the Potioneer tells them when they make the deal. Those hunters know zilch about our trade, I tell you.” The old man answers. He grabs into Severus’ arm as they slowly move towards the entrance. “So these nymphs you are looking for… I haven’t heard of new ingredients of that kind going around but I admit, I wasn’t even paying attention. I generally don’t, as I said, that is evil magic.”

Mortimer scratches his beard, then combs his eyebrows with his fingertips. “Now, my friend, the one who saved Temmie, he told me about this shop. Deals with mostly voodoo for Muggles you see, but the thing is, most of the items there aren’t bogus. It’s all the real deal. _They_ wanted my pup, too… they might know more about any innocent nymph coming to the market, but I’ll keep my ears open for you and ask around too.”

“I would be grateful,’ Severus says and pulls the old man to himself. “It was nice seeing you again, Mortimer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mortimer grunts, but Severus can tell there is a little pinkness to his skin beneath all that grey beard. “The place you are looking for is on the corner of High Street and Crown. Just show your wand, and they will know you are a real one.”

“Thank you, old friend.”

“Don’t be a stranger, boy,” says Mortimer as he opens the door. “And I do hope you find those nymphs. Innocents shouldn’t be hurt to fit the needs of the adults.”

**o.O.o**

Hermione holds on to the books while Harry apparates all three of them to a little town near Fakenham. They arrive into a green park right next to the house they are looking for. Children run noisily around in the tiny playground near them but they pay no attention to the noise of Apparition. Some adults look around before they climb into their cars, others hurry their steps up the stair and slip into their red bricked houses.

It is one of those typical brick houses that Harry, Ron and Hermione aim for as well. They pull their jacket tighter as the cold wind sweeps the ground around them. Even though fall has popped its head up in this place as well, Harry feels it is not even nearly as dreadful as the Shelter.

“We’ll go ahead,” Harry says, stepping before Hermione.

Ron jerks next to him. “Mate, I’m still not used to you having your voice back. It’s weird.”

His voice has gotten a lot a better while he told everything about their morning to Hermione and Ron. Daere’s death shook both his friends, yet none of them could forget that if they do not stop whoever is behind this, more deaths are to follow. A part of Harry still hopes Emily Graham will be the one whom they are looking for, however on the other hand, he still has his doubts. A nice person, with a perfect record like that… it is nearly impossible. And yet, these leads are all they have and it all points this way.

Ron knocks on the white door and they wait.

“Look,” Hermione murmurs. “Someone is watching us from the window.

They all look up, too but the only thing they manage to catch is the white curtains moving gently, but there is no person behind it. Just as they would become suspicious, they hear keys rattling in the hole and old voice saying, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

The door opens up and an old lady watches them avidly. Mrs. Graham has short, but slightly curly grey hair, and blue eyes that now have faded slightly, but the light in them is very welcoming. She has deep crow’s feet and when a faint smile appears on her lips, the old face reflects a much younger self. To Harry, she seems like the kind of person who would invite everyone in for tea, biscuits, and some gossip.  “Yes?” She asks in a fragile voice that is more crooked than Harry’s.

“Good Morning,” They all say, then Harry steps a bit forward and holds out his hand. “My name is Harry Potter, I work with your daughter, Emily.”

“Oh, of course, of course, Harry,” chuckles the old lady. “You must forgive me, I lost my glasses somewhere in there. These two must be Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger... or Weasley is it now? Oh yes, I know your name, who wouldn’t?” She steps away and motions to them to come inside.

They thank her and scramble inside the little home. The hallway is narrow but there are stairs leading upstairs. Mrs. Graham does not lead them that way, but towards the end of the hall. They are steered into the living room and offered a seat. They all sit down into a cosy little sofa barely enough for all of them.

Harry takes a look around and feels as if he has just travelled back in time. This place reminds him of his childhood but not to his Aunt and Uncle’s house. Mrs. Figgs’s home looked exactly like this. Only the cats are missing, but the crocheted table cloths, the old furniture, the once colourful now faded carpets, and even that distinct old place smell can all be found here. Harry is surprised that Emily still lives with her mother, but there is evidence scattered all around the tidy little living room. He can see books on Defence Against the Dark Arts, there’s a cardigan lying on the back of the settee, and Harry doubts Mrs.  Graham’s favourite team is also the Cannons, or that she would be willing to wear that bright orange pullover.

“Is Emily home?” Hermione chirps in a kind voice.

“Oh no, she isn’t. Not at this time.” Mrs. Graham answers. “May I offer you some tea? I have some pastries as well. I made them for Alan but if Emily keeps me waiting for much longer, I’m afraid they will go cold.”

She pulls out an old, battered looking wand and holds it so timidly as if it could explode any moment. Harry expects her to lose it half way through his summoning, but the tea arrives safely and the lady tucks away her wand back into her apron.

The kettle is closest to Ron so he grabs it and fills up the summoned teacups. “Cute,” he notes pointing at the tea cosy, which looks like a little pink elephant.

“Oh, thank you dear,” Mrs. Graham smiles. “I love knitting. It fills the time, you know.” She points at Ron’s brown sweater, one of Molly’s, and remarks, “That’s a great job, too. I made a couple, as well, when I was younger, but they are just too much of a hassle and with Emily having that neat little uniform now… Well she simply doesn’t need so much of my jumpers. It’s for the better, I say.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees, “Our Auror robes are warm. But nothing gets better than mom’s jumpers.” He looks at Hermione, who took on knitting again recently. “And of course, your scarfs.”

“Oh so you knit as well?” The lady inquiries from her now.

“Yes,” she laughs awkwardly. “But I forgot a lot, so I have to relearn it now again…”

“Oh,” Mrs. Graham jumps up from her armchair. “I have some great magazines you might love, Hermione, dear. I’ll go get them for you.” She hustles out of the room as fast as her old joints let her.

Harry, Ron and Hermione shares a look.

“This is going to take ages…” Ron whispers.

“She talks an awfully lot.” Hermione agrees.

“She might not even know what’s going on with her daughter. We can’t just ask and leave.” Harry argues. “Or can we?”

“No, we can't,” says Hermione, her voice tainted with agony.

“Well, let’s just roll with it,” Ron says, then adds with a shrug. “At least this one won't turn into a snake.”

Harry shudders as the thought of Nagini in the decayed body of Bathilda Bagshot. He elbows Ron, who just sniggers, but he cannot retaliate as Mrs. Graham is coming back to the room.

“Here you go, my dear.”

“Oh thank you,” Hermione says and takes the magazines. She opens one up right away and starts reading it – Harry suspects it must be an instinct now with her. “This is actually quite useful…” She mumbles. Absentmindedly, she reaches out and grabs a piece of the apple pie. She freezes after taking a bite and slowly raises her eyes. “Oh my god, this is delicious!” She exhales.

Ron takes a slice as well and shoves it in his mouth. “Oh mate, you got to try this…” he moans.

Harry does and he has to admit that Mrs. Graham’s apple pie is almost in the same league as Margie’s Manchester tart. “Brilliant,” he nods.

“Thank you, my dears. I had some time to perfect the recipe.” She chuckles. “After all, it is Alan’s favourite, and I would do a lot more for that boy.”

“Who is Alan?” Harry asks.

“Oh, he is my grandson.” The lady answers and a shadows crosses her eyes. She tries to stand but thinks otherwise in the end. Hermione is about to jump up and help her, but she waves her hand. “No need, Hermione dear.” She pulls out her wand instead and waves it. A picture comes floating from the mantelpiece and lands in Harry’s hand. “He’s a bit older now, of course. Turns seven next year in February.” There is a tinge of sadness in her voice but Harry forgets about it the moment he looks at the photo.

A small Emily Graham looks back, or someone clearly her child. Alan has short brown hair, but the same cheerfulness radiates from his eyes as Harry seen on Emily’s only days ago. He waves at the camera then laughs, and waves again, always looking happy. He is a handsome boy, Harry thinks, with a very catching, mischievous smile. He places the photo back on the table.

“So, uhm, Mrs. Graham,” Hermione says, putting the magazines down to her feet. “We came to deliver some books to Emily, do you maybe know when she will be back?”

“Should have been here an hour ago,” sighs the lady looking at the clock over the big fireplace. “She must be really busy, my dear Emily.”

_Busy with what_ , Harry thinks, but instead only asks, “The books we have for her are about nymphs… Do you maybe know why she needed them?”

Mrs. Graham suddenly frowns and looks at them all before demanding, “Is my Emily in some sort of a trouble? Is that why you are here?”

“Oh no,” Ron laughs. “We just wanted to let her know that my dad could actually take her out to see some, if she’s interested. We have a few living near our house. But if it’s just for research or something…” He shrugs, hesitant.

“Oh that is very kind of you, Ron,” Mrs. Graham responds a lot nicer now than a minute ago. “But I don’t know what she needed it for, probably some case at work, you know how it is.” She looks at the clock again as she adds, “I wonder where she is… This is so unlike her. The pie will go all cold.”

“Oh, we don’t want to bother you any longer,” Hermione offers. “You can call down Alan to eat, and we’ll just go.”

“Call him down?” The old lady echoes and the shadows are back in her eyes, but this time, they do not leave. “Oh I wish I could, I wish I could just do that.” He reaches for the framed photo of Alan Graham and holds it in his hand. Tears stream down on her old, wrinkled face and drop onto the glass. The gentle tap-tap-tap sound they make breaks Harry’s heart a bit, because he finally understands what is going on.

“Your grandson, Mrs. Graham, he isn’t home, is he?” He asks, voice cracking. “St Mungo’s?”

“Not there,” she shakes her hand and wipes her tears. “We couldn’t… He is in King’s Lynn at St Sebastian.”

“What happened?” Ron asks quietly.

Hermione stands and walks to Mrs. Graham. She sits down next to her and puts her arm around the old lady’s shoulder. Mrs. Graham smiles at her gratefully, but tears are still streaming from her eyes.

“We don’t know…” she sighs. “No one knows. One moment, he was fine, playing outside. We found him in the garden, he was unconscious. We thought nothing of it back then, thought it was tiredness. But it happened again. And again. The third time he didn’t come back for a full day. We called the local Healer, but he couldn’t help. So we took him to St Sebastian. He’s getting worse and worse. His last black out lasted almost a week.” She watches them, looking a lot older than she was when they have met. “And you know, the worst is, when he’s around he’s not sick. He is a perfectly happy six-year-old. Then he suddenly goes into coma for days.”

They sit quietly. Harry is not sure what to say. It all makes sense now, but he wishes it did not. Suddenly, everything became a shade darker, the world has tilted and now shows an even uglier face. He suddenly realizes how Snape must have felt when Harry let go of Ine that night. It is horrible when someone takes the reins you thought you held firmly. He drops his head and tries to figure out a way, but it seems someone needs to make a choice. Even if Harry’s life cannot be helped, Alan’s probably still can. But who to save? Which innocent life is worth more?

“We wanted to go to him,” says Mrs. Graham looking at the clock again. “Emily promised to be here, so we can take the pie. I’m too old, you see… I can't apparate alone.”

“We can take you there,” Harry offers. “It’s the least we can do.”

**o.O.o**

The wizarding hospital in King’s Lynn is in an old minster. From outside it looks forlorn and broken. They can see through it, almost even feel the salty air blew through the gigantic holes. The wooden railing around it stands only as a reminder of a once great building that now stands empty and forgotten. The cliff it stands on is far away from the bustling city, but it is still heavily warded against wandering tourists. Signs and a yellow tape on the deteriorating fence tries to scare away the muggles, and those who think they are brave enough to venture closer to the minster feel a sudden craving appetite that only a hearty meal at a local brewery can satisfy.

However, once a wizard steps through the stone gates, he is welcomed in a buzzing hospital. Much like in St Mungo’s, the reception area seems to be full of wizards and witches of all ages, sitting or standing in line. Some cases seem simple for Harry; he even recognizes symptoms caused by Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Ron spots it too, and nudges him with his elbow to point it out. They share a grin and shake their head at the young boy who must have lost the other half of his Puking Pastilles. Others have arrived here with more serious conditions. Three healers stand around a woman who is literally bleeding from at least five holes. A blond girl, must be around second year, is crying loudly – apparently, she cannot put down the book she is holding.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Mrs. Graham does not have to wait, so they walk past the sick crowd and their loved ones. They only stop for a moment, when a young red haired girl waves at them from behind the counter. “Hello, Mrs Graham!”

“Good Morning, Fanny,” Mrs. Graham greats her as well, then they are on the way again. She leads the way, no doubt, this must be her hundredth visit to the hospital if not more. They do not need to use the elevator, but turn left at the end of the reception area. They pass some hallways that Mrs. Graham ignores. Harry sneaks a look at the little signs on them. Healer Christoffson, Healer McHale, and many others have their offices here. Just when he thinks they came to talk to the Healer in charge of Alan’s wellbeing, they run out of doors and turn right on another corner.

“This place is like a maze,” Ron whispers to him and Harry could not agree more.

This corridor though is suddenly filled with noise. They must have reached the children’s wing, because the usual pristine white colours are gone now. The tiles on the ground are yellow, red, green and blue, the walls are covered in drawings from the patients by the look of it. There are no windows but bright light comes out from all the doors, which all bare different colours as well and a symbol.

“This one,” Mrs. Graham points out a purple door with a phoenix on it.

Harry, Ron and Hermione shares a look then the girl speaks up, “Mrs. Graham, we will wait here outside.”

She just chuckles, “Oh don’t be foolish, my dear. Apple pie is best if shared and Alan would love a bit of company I’m sure.” Her lips pull into a shy smile. “And besides, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but he looks up to you three. You see, Emily talks admiringly of all of you.”

“Oh,” Ron grins, holding his arm out for Mrs. Graham. “If he’s a fan, how could we say no?”

His cockiness brings an honest smile to the lady’s face or maybe it is the prospect of causing such happiness for her grandson. She entwines her arm with Ron’s and they walk in together followed by Harry and Hermione.

The ward is indeed bright. The vaulted windows with stone frame bring a gothic feeling to the place, however the children and the Healers made sure that the place looks nothing like a minster. There are balloons and toys everywhere, books for those who like to read or are bedridden. Though, only one little girl is in bed at the moment, the other seven stands empty. Toy brooms float around waiting for their racers, chocolate frogs hop on the colourful wall.

“This place looks nothing like the wards in St. Mungo’s,” Hermione says softly.

Mrs. Graham’s tone is sad as she explains quietly why, “This ward is for children with incurable illnesses. They are trying to make their time here at least enjoyable.”

“Grandma!” comes a cry from the back of the room and a brown-haired boy jumps up from the ground and darts towards them. His hug is enthusiastic, he all but knocks Mrs. Graham down.

“He sure is lively,” laughs Ron.

Alan looks at him and his eyes go round. “That’s Ron Weasley!” He squeals. “And Hermione Granger! And…And, grandma, that’s… that’s _Harry Potter_!”

The whole ward goes quiet even if the name is said in whispered awe. “Hullo,” Harry says and kneels in front of Alan. “Call me Harry. You must be Alan. We’re friends of your mom’s. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You remember me?” Ron asks, squatting down as well so he would be eye level with Alan.

The boy nods at him enthusiastically and cries, “Go Cannons!”

“And we’re best friends,” laughs Ron, winking at Alan who reacts with a big grin.

Hermione pulls the napkin off the basket she is carrying and shows it to Alan. “We have some apple pie for you. Are you hungry?”

“I sure am!” He shouts.

Alan is a great kid. He pulls them to the only bedridden girl’s bed and while Harry pulls up a chair for Mrs. Graham, Alan walks around the ward and tells all the kids about his grandmother’s apple pie. It is really heart-breaking to see the boy so lively and know there is nothing they can do to make him better. In fact, it does look like as if he would be a perfectly healthy six-year-old. Emily’s reasons are perfectly clear for them now, though they cannot even fathom how she must feel.

Soon all twelve of them are around or on that one bed and the little, blue eyed, blond girl seems happiest of all. While the children enjoy the treat, Ron entertains them from stories of their school year and the little ones are the perfect audience indeed. They squeal when they have to, laugh when it is something funny, and yelp when the events turn unexpected. When Ron reaches the part when Harry pushed his wand up a troll’s nose, a collective “Ew,” passes the small crowd.

Mrs. Graham seems happy as well as she watches her grandson kneeling on the bed, almost falling forward, as he listens to the story so intently. But occasionally, she looks towards the bright windows and Harry knows exactly what she is thinking of.

Where is Emily…?

Soon Healers come in administering potions and casting charms on the children and it seems the fun is over for now. The young witches and wizards obediently rush back into their beds once the three Healers walk in and Harry, Ron, Hermione and Mrs. Graham gather around Alan’s bed as well.

McHale is the name of the approaching Healer; Harry reads it off from the little nametag over the wizard’s heart. Harry and Ron walk up to him to have a few words out of the earshot of the boy and his grandmother.

David McHale has a certain charm in him and Harry understands why he works with kids. They must love him as he, too, looks like a grown-up child. He is still young, could not be much older than Harry himself. Rectangle shaped, yellow glasses frame his youthful face, his eyes twinkle in the bright light. His cheeks go slightly pink, when he is caught taking a double check on Harry’s lightning bolt shaped scar, but he recovers quickly when they shake hand and introduce themselves.

“So, what is wrong with him?”

“I wish we knew, Auror Potter,” McHale answers. “It’s like his brain just shuts down occasionally and he needs more and more time to come back. We run tests on him, but he is perfectly healthy. Even when he is in a coma, his vitals say he is just sleeping.”

“Interesting…” Harry murmurs. “And what do you give him?”

“These?” The Healer lifts a little potion vial. “Just vitamins. That’s all we can do.”

“I see,” says Harry.

“And what brings you here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, we’re Emily’s friends,” Ron waves nonchalantly. “Thank you for your time, Healer.” They are about to turn back but McHale does not let them.

“Friends? Indeed?” He asks surprised.

“Well, we work together.” Harry clarifies. “You know how it is with colleagues,” he smiles. “Sooner or later you either hate them, or love them.”

The forced smile does not elude Harry’s attention. “It’s just he never mentioned being friends with the famous Harry Potter.”

Harry scratches his head, ruffling his hair so that his scar would be covered. The motion is more or less instinctive. “Well, I guess, the fact that she does not walk around bragging about knowing me made us friends.”

“Oh, that’s not… I apologise…”

“If you would excuse us…” Harry says, turning away.

They only take a couple of steps, but then McHale grabs Harry’s arm, who turns around right away. He glares at the man, but it is Ron who notes quietly, in a light tone, “I would not do that.”

“Did she mention me?” Asks the Healer, letting go of Harry right away. “Ever?”

Frowning slightly, Harry looks up at him. “No, not that I know of.” Ron shakes his head as well, and something weird crosses McHale’s face.

At first, Harry thinks it is relief but then the Healer says, “We had dinner the other day…”

“You fancy her?” Ron snorts.

Indignant, the Healer stares at him. “She is a very kind woman. We talked a lot since…”

Calmer now that he knows McHale was acting weird because of jealousy, Harry pats his shoulder and says, “With Alan being in here and work, I’m sure Emily has a lot of things on her mind.”

Awkwardly shuffling, McHale looks up. “Thank you, Auror.” With that he walks away, heading toward Alan’s bed.

Harry watches as he gives the little green vial to Alan. Mrs. Graham smiles at him and so does the kid. They seem to trust him, and soon Harry’s worries fade too.

“Mate…?” Ron calls out tentatively. “I know it’s not my business… but are _you_ interested in someone?”

“Why do you ask?” Harry asks trying to control the sudden heat in his cheeks.

“Are you?” Ron asks back and Harry can tell he is not the only one feeling suddenly very awkward. Which makes him wonder why did Ron bring up the subject in the first place.

“Maybe…?” He answers carefully.

“Look,” says Ron. “It’s not that I’m giving up on you or anything. But, well, you know what they say about living your life as if every day would be the last…”

Harry cannot repress his grin. “Are you telling me, I should live a little because every day _could,_ in fact, be my last?”

“Well,” Ron scratches his chin. “All I’m saying is, maybe this could serve as a warning that some things in life should be…uhm…” He stutters for a while, then sighs sharply. “Mate, I don’t know how people do this, subtlety just isn’t my thing. Look, I saw that picture. _The_ picture. With you and Snape after the Gala.” He held up his hands. “You don’t need to say a word. I get it. Actually, no I don’t. But I do understand why you didn’t want to go to him at first, and that’s why I _sort of_ tried talking Hermione out of it, too, but you know how it is with her… Anyway. All I’m saying is, maybe some things should not be left unsaid.”

Harry chooses his words carefully. “Even though I couldn’t say the words until now, I’m pretty sure he gets my meaning.”

“Well, if he doesn’t… maybe you should be a bit more… open about your… uhm... intentions.”

“I was, Ron. And so was he.”

“Wait are you telling me… what are you telling me, Harry?”

Grinning, Harry just says, “What I’m telling you, Ron, is that there’s only one bed in his house, and I’m not staying on the couch anymore.”

Gaping, Ron just stares at him for seconds. “Merlin’s balls, Harry,” he whispers.

Their conversation stops right there because they both look at Mrs. Graham when she desperately cries, “Alan!”

They rush to the boy’s bed, but it is too late. Alan lies there, the green vial still in his hand. His eyes are closed and no matter how hard his grandmother is shaking him, he does not respond. McHale is casting diagnostic spells but just as he previously said, they all come back inconclusive. “Not again,” he murmurs, but there’s nothing he can do.

Hermione is trying her best as well, but she gets the same result as the Healer. Ron is comforting Mrs. Graham who is sobbing over the boy’s motionless body. It takes him at least ten minutes but slowly the old lady calms down. She looks up at them from the small hospital chair, looking very fragile all of a sudden.

“I’ll stay with him…” She says. “You should go. I’m sure you are all busy.”

Harry conjures up a nice, cosy armchair for her and a soft blanket. They do not even try to ask her to go home.

“Would you like us to leave a note for Emily at home?” Hermione inquires softly.

She shakes her head. “There’s no need. She will know I’m here.”

“Is there anything else, we could do for you, Mrs. Graham?” Ron asks.

“Find my Emily,” She asks in a broken tone. “Alan and I need her.”

“We will,” Harry promises, taking one last look at the young boy.

“The last one lasted for a week…” the lady sighs, then looks up him. “She has been away most days and I understand, I do. She tries to keep her mind busy, of course, and concentrates on work. Don’t judge her, please. After all, there is no greater pain than losing one’s child.” She smiles apologetically, and as Harry looks into her empty eyes, he realizes that Petra Graham has probably already made peace with the fact that his only grandchild is possibly not going to live to celebrate his seventh birthday.

“We will do our best, Mrs. Graham,” he promises, clutching the small, wrinkled fingers in between his hands. “Try to get some rest.”

They get out of St Sebastian as fast as they can, all three of them needing some fresh air. They linger around the backyard, the hospital’s wards protecting them from the eyes of muggles. Ron leans against the iron railing and slowly slides down until he is sitting on fresh, green grass. Harry sits next to him, while Hermione sits on the narrow stone ledge.

As Harry looks at his friends, he realizes that even if they are supposed to be adults now, just how young they actually are. There are certain sorrows not even a war can prepare you for.

“It would drive me to madness…” Hermione whispers.

“Yeah…” Ron agrees. “This slow torture… Fred’s death has been hard on Mom and Dad, but at least it was quick. And it was a war, he died fighting. But this… losing the kid to an illness bit by bit…? No wonder she is willing to kill innocent nymphs. I’m surprised she didn’t go bonkers yet…”

“What are we going to do?” Harry asks quietly. “I mean…”

Hermione is the most reasonable among the three of them and her harsh, but honest answer is like a slap on the face, but at least it sets Harry’s priorities right. “You have to treat this just like any other case, Harry. If you take her or even Alan out of it, it’s plain what we have here. The law is clear; harvesting ingredients from intelligent magical beings without consent is punished with up to ten years in Azkaban, and that’s not all. What Emily plans to do is much more than that, Harry. She _kidnapped_ four children, and intends to kill them and sell parts of their dead bodies on the Dark Market as ingredients. No matter the reason behind it, Harry, what she intends to do is cold blooded murder.”

“It’s nothing I wouldn’t do for our kid, Hermione,” comments Ron quietly.

“I don’t want to think about what I would or wouldn’t do for my unborn child, but I’m sure of one thing, Ron. If I would do the same, Emily Graham would arrest me within a heartbeat if she knew. The moment we think we are above the law, we’re no better than the criminals you arrest during your work as an Auror. It is not up to _us_ to decide who gets to live and who doesn’t.”

“I love you,” says Ron grasping her thigh, “but sometimes I wish you weren’t so god damn right all the time.”

She ruffles his red hair and kisses the top of his head. “I love you, too, Ron.” She answers gently. “There’s something else that really bothers me though…You weren’t there then, but Alan said something that I can't get out of my head…”

“What?” Harry asks.

“It might be just… optimism… but… Emily visited her yesterday and she said she will cure him. That she has a way.” Hermione closes his eyes for a second and sighs. “He also said Emily only asked for one more week.”

Hesitant, Harry looks at his friends. “I guess there’s something you need to know…” He has to take a deep breath before he says it out loud. “I probably won't have much time either. I definitely won't make it till the next full moon. I have seizures, I’m coughing up blood, and I think I have a fever right now. Snape says it’s only going to be worse from now on. We got the stone from Daere, that’s probably the only thing that will help a bit… but… it’s kind of… well… over for me.”

To his and Ron’s surprise, Hermione laughs out loud. “Honestly, Harry, how can you be such a good Auror, when you can be so ignorant sometimes,” she chuckles sitting on the grass between them. “Emily said she is going to cure Alan within a week. Which means, she’s planning to kill Ine and the others within the next seven days or so… and not during the next full moon.”

“But… but they need to be in human form for their magic to work…So that means…” Ron breathes with widening eyes, snapping his gaze at his best friend.

“Which means…” Harry whispers too, afraid of jinxing it. “They are all kept in human form…”

“Which means,” Hermione grins, putting her arms around the men’s shoulder, “you might still get that lock of nymph hair you need, Harry.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> _In loving memory of Alan Rickman..._


End file.
